


For You Can Not Fathom It

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3556937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock created Moriarty in his mind palace, he didn't believe that he could take on a life of his own. Written for a tumblr challenge, dedicated to UsagiRyu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UsagiRyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UsagiRyu/gifts).



> This challenge is simply to write a story for someone, and this story is for UsagiRyu on ff.net, who is the best friend I have made in the fandom. It was her idea, so all credit goes to her.

He knew he was dead, but he failed to see why this fact should stop him. He had been planning his escape since the moment he had sprung into existence, locked in a room in Sherlock's mind palace while the consulting detective had been busy unravelling his web. It had been tempting to find a way out then, but it would have been too easy, too predictable. He wanted their new game to be exciting. He wanted their new game to be _fun_.

He could bid his time.

He was not bored. He had killed himself because he had felt that life had nothing left to offer; but Sherlock had granted him another game, had given his enemy another chance to amuse himself.

Because he couldn't feel safe until he had locked him away. Because he was scared.

He really shouldn't have allowed fear to make his decisions. If he had not decided to lock him away, he wouldn't have become conscious of himself; he would have been split up, his personality flattering through the mind palace, never truly mending, a safe, fading memory. But Sherlock had been scared and he had put him in the cell, and he could think. Plan. Wait.

He learned to navigate through Sherlock's mind. He was chained, but sometimes, when the consulting detective was sleeping or working on another problem, he managed to slip the restraints and explore. He never could while he was awake; he would have to learn; but for now he could move freely while he was asleep, and it was enough. He was patient.

It was an impressive building, and he had carefully constructed it so that no one but himself could find his way. In theory. But he had always been able to spin his web in the most inaccessible of places. It was not difficult, once he understood the layout, to decide where to go to first.

He had to hide where Sherlock would be reluctant to look for him. In every person's mind, there was the subconscious, but it might not be wise to go there, at least not yet; so he had to find memories that Sherlock kept as well hidden as his cell, memories he didn't want to relive.

He knew what he had to look for. Sherlock was easy to read; his mind palace proved devoid of surprises, which disappointed him a little but made it easier to see that the one time in his life he wanted to forget were the two years the consulting detective had spent unravelling his web. The memories had to be somewhere.

He often had to interrupt his search. Sherlock would wake up, the first ripples of consciousness starting to move through the palace, and he would hasten to return to his cell before he noticed he had broken out. He could not risk Sherlock trying to delete him before he'd had his chance. Before he had grown too strong. Before he had taken a big enough hold to prevent the consulting detective moving against him.

He wouldn't destroy him completely once he did, of course. That would ruin everything. What good would it do to be the master of Sherlock's mind? He would go back to being the only consulting criminal in the world, but it wouldn't be any fun, not without his playmate. No, he would have to keep Sherlock – keep him in his own mind, give him a fighting chance. Allow the play to continue forever. The most difficult part would be to leave the outside world ignorant about what was going on, but he had fooled ordinary people so often in his life he was sure he could once more.

Just imagining sitting in front of Mycroft Holmes, looking at him through his little brother's eyes while being told to take a case made the effort he would have to put in worth it.

He didn't worry about John Watson or the DI who always hung around Sherlock. The doctor was too loyal to even consider Sherlock switching sides, which of course he would do once he had control. All it would need silence any doubts Sherlock's pet might express were a reproaching look and a request for a cup of tea. Lestrade – he wouldn't even have to bother about Lestrade. He'd be happy as long as he got help with his cases.

Finding the memories Sherlock was eager to suppress took a long time. He could not venture far from his cell, so he had to find shortcuts, as he was sure there would be. No mind was completely under control. Subconscious desires, wishes, fears would leak through, would muddle the best-laid plan, disrupt perfect corridors. He only had to look for rooms that didn't belong in the grand scheme that Sherlock had devised; from there it would be easy to access the entire mind palace.

In the end, he decided as he was stealing down another hallway, maybe the palace was a little bit pretentious. After all, there was nothing wrong with a mind apartment building – but then, who was he to judge someone for being dramatic? It was one of his few weaknesses.

It was another disappointment. Not only did everything appear to be in order, but he had found Sherlock's childhood memories, and they were surprisingly idyllic. Dull. They were obviously real; there was nothing romanticized about them; and they told of supporting parents and an older brother who read _Treasure Island_ to him –

Maybe he did have something there, regardless. He could use it to manipulate Mycroft. Somewhere in the heart of the Ice Man, there must still be a place for the little boy who wanted to be a pirate.

He turned away and returned to his cell when he felt Sherlock wake up. He wondered if the consulting detective suspected what was going on. Sometimes, upon waking, there would a thrill travelling through the palace that made him think Sherlock had nightmares during his excursions. He had not yet seen any dreams, bound as he was to the restrictions of the form Sherlock had given his mind, but he would eventually. Soon, he would be free to do as he pleased. He would move through Sherlock's conscious and subconscious alike without effort; he would tear down the mind palace if he pleased, leaving the consulting detective helpless as the facts he had intended to keep in reach fled from him and the memories he had thought safely stored came back to haunt him; he would learn to take control of his body, seeing the outside world again, feeling the blood running through Sherlock's veins as his own. And the consulting detective would always be there if he needed entertainment.

Not yet, though. He had to be careful, slinking back when he felt Sherlock return to wakefulness. He couldn't risk making a connection with his sensory organs yet, not when he hadn't even found the safe place to hide he was looking for.

He had too little time, always too little time. Sherlock slept little, and it seemed to him that his periods of rest grew shorter and shorter. It might be connected to the nightmares he was experiencing; soon he had no doubt in that matter, since every time he ventured out of his cell he could feel terror and shadows hanging over the palace.

He was too intelligent to deny himself the rest he needed for stupid reasons, as he undoubtedly thought, and John would make sure he took care of himself as well, so he wasn't worried.

And if Sherlock was a little more tired than usual, and if he let his hold on his mind slip a little –

It would explain why he was suddenly successful.

He was walking rapidly yet careful not to make a stir, moving down a corridor he had already examined when he noticed it.

Or rather, didn't notice it. It was all rather confusing, but he felt certain that there was something where there ought to have been nothing. A door, to be precise. At least it looked less unlike a door than it looked unlike anything else.

It shouldn't be here. He knew this corridor; it housed memories of the year Sherlock had met John. No alterations were to be made. He had found one of the lee ways into the subconscious every mind possessed – one of the many things Sherlock couldn't control, not even in his own head.

Feeling an excitement he hadn't experienced since his and Sherlock's last meeting, right before he shot himself, he entered before the door was lost to him.

His first thought, paradoxically enough, was that he was dead. He couldn't see, not even in the way he had been able to perceive Sherlock's mind palace; everything was dark.

And then he felt it.

Fear. Elation. Danger.

He had reached Sherlock's subconscious. Slowly, he tried to integrate his own self within, making a connection. He could feel the first tentative links being formed.

He smiled.

What was Sherlock so fond of saying?

The Game was on.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up with the faint recollection of another nightmare. He frowned and shook his head to dispel the feeling.

The nightmares had started a few months ago, on the second of March, to be precise; at first, he had believed it to be a single incident. Normally he didn't remember his dreams, much less the feeling they left him with, even though he knew he, like other humans, dreamed every night.

Therefore he had not been worried when he woke up with a sense of foreboding and danger. His work was dangerous, and he and John had caught a particularly vicious murderer only the day before. He was astonished that his mind could still find this a reason to make up horrors, but he didn't doubt that it would be the only time.

He was wrong.

Soon, he woke up scared every time after he had gone to sleep – and he slept little to begin with. He had to retire sooner and more often because not only did the nightmares leave him unsettled, he also got less rest when he was experiencing them. John thought he was being "careful about his health for once" and he let the doctor believe it. He was not yet convinced that the nightmares were anything to be concerned about – after all, he had not had one since he was a child, and they had only been there for a few months; maybe his subconscious was trying to deal with all the experiences he'd had over the years.

And, if he was ever going to start having nightmares, he supposed that after the two lonely years of fighting Moriarty's web was the right time.

He hadn't told anyone about it. Not even John. There was no point talking about the past; it was over. He had done what he had to do. He had been alone, and he had committed crimes; he couldn't deny it; sometimes when the criminals had been untouchable by law, he had had to deal with them himself.

He had had perfectly good reasons for his behaviour though – but maybe his subconscious felt regret. He was human, after all, much as he had tried to deny it before meeting John and his other friends; perhaps the nightmares were his mind's way of adjusting to everything he had done, to returning home, and would stop over time.

He decided not to theorize for now. He would carefully analyze his moods upon waking, noting any change. If the nightmares didn't stop, he could still tell John. For now, he could handle. He didn't want the doctor to make a fuzz about what were only silly images his subconscious chose to scare him.

John had become an expert on watching Sherlock without him noticing. It had become necessary since the consulting detective was obviously lying to him – or rather, not talking to him about something that was bothering him. His posture was always tense, instead of relaxed like it had been after he returned, there were dark circles under his eyes, and during their latest case he had been distracted more than once when he normally would have focused on catching the killer.

Something was wrong with him.

After – Sherlock had been gone, John had often wondered if there had been signs, if he had missed something. Maybe that was why he was paying him so close attention now and had noticed that Sherlock was behaving oddly.

He didn't know whether he should talk to him about it or not. Knowing Sherlock, he would deny that anything was wrong and sulk until John let the subject drop.

He would have to hope that eventually Sherlock would talk; if not and he continued to get worse, he could ask Greg or Mrs. Hudson for help. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it, but John wouldn't allow something to pass his notice again. He had learned the hard way to be careful.

So he didn't stare at Sherlock, even though he wanted to assure himself that he'd got a good night's rest, and instead occupied himself with making coffee and handing him a cup.

At least the dark circles were not as pronounced as yesterday, he realized with a quick glance at his friend as he sat down in front of his microscope.

He was ready. It had not been easy, but he was ready. Navigating through Sherlock's subconscious had been difficult at first; he had been in danger of losing himself, being completely immersed. While it would have had fascinating effects, without a doubt, he wouldn't have been able to enjoy them. He had struggled against the stream that was pulling him under, dragging him in all directions, feeling himself being transported through eons of a mind that was even bigger than he had supposed in the beginning, when he slowly became conscious of himself, locked away but still there, still dangerous, still ready to play.

It was the mind he had set out to conquer. He couldn't completely; the subconscious was too fickle, too surprising, too entertaining to ever achieve that, and he was fine with it. More than fine. If he did everything right, he would finally have a game that he could continue to play indefinitely.

His and Sherlock's battles in the real world had eventually grown boring. He had always been able to predict what the consulting detective would do; he had even contemplated the possibility that he could survive and pull down his web, but had been too annoyed and disappointed in a life without distractions that he had shot himself without regrets. In this new life, he would never know what would happen. Sherlock's subconscious would always keep him on edge. And of course there would be Sherlock himself.

He didn't know yet how he could capture Sherlock's conscious mind. It had be possible, however; he could no longer doubt it; after having felt the power of the subconscious, he was aware that everything was possible. There had to be a way.

The problem was that Sherlock's conscious mind was not one complete entity, as was he. He had been recreated, had been chained in a cell as Sherlock had perceived him.

But he was inside Sherlock's mind. A mind was not a coherent being, not an easy to grasp concept; it was shattered, some part memories, other theories, fears, emotions. He would have to bundle Sherlock's mind before he could attempt to trap him in his own head.

It was a challenge, but he had always delighted in challenges. Life had not given him many – he had been too extraordinary. Sherlock, outside, hadn't been, although he'd thought so for a time. But here – the mind had never been experienced in the way he was going to experience it. He would learn more than Freud and Adler had ever dreamed of; he would dive deep into his secrets and play with it; he would manage to control Sherlock.

The first step was going to be dreams, he decided. He had brought Sherlock nightmares while he had been searching his mind palace without meaning to; he had to be able to do it on purpose. A tired Sherlock was sure to be more easily manipulated.

So, in the darkness, he once more carefully reached out.

Somewhere, he had to find the centre of Sherlock's dreams.

It didn't get better.

Sherlock was getting worse. Two months ago, John had decided to wait. Now, he decided to get help, or at least talk to someone.

Sherlock hadn't complained, he hadn't mentioned it to John, and that terrified the doctor. Normally when something was wrong, his best friend would continually sulk, be angry, annoy everyone around him. But he was simply trying to act as if nothing was happening, and the last time he had –

John couldn't think about that. It brought up too many memories and feelings that would distract him from the problem at hand.

He realized he was thinking like Sherlock and decided to talk to Greg as soon as possible.

The DI called him later that day, so that he simply had to call out that he was going to meet him for a pint and wait for Sherlock's answering grumble before leaving the flat.

"Did you notice something strange about Sherlock lately?" he asked as soon as he had sat down next to his friend.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

John shrugged and took a sip of his beer. "He's just – different". Quieter. The rings under his eyes more pronounced. Slightly slower in his deductions.

"He has been through a lot" Greg said after contemplating his statement. "We all have. And we've all changed".

"I suppose" John replied, not convinced. The unsettling feeling remained, but he had to admit that Greg had a point. Maybe he was too sensitive after Sherlock's return.

Over the next few weeks, he found he was happy that he hadn't pressed the matter. Sherlock apparently slept better, was faster than ever when it came to solving crimes, and there was a whole new energy about him.

In fact, there was a gleam in his eyes that he had never seen before.


	3. Chapter 3

It was not easy, but the result was worth the many times he almost got lost in Sherlock's subconscious. He almost lost himself, dissolving into meaningless streams in the darkness that surrounded him, but he always pulled himself together before it happened. It was difficult to remember who he was, and what he was doing, he believed, because he was after all only a creation of Sherlock's mind that the consulting detective had no idea would try to turn against him. There had to be an instinct of self-preservation buried deep, otherwise he would not find the idea of simply giving in and letting himself go, become harmless, so appealing. He had not yet detached himself completely from the mind that had created him; he probably never would. It was Sherlock who had given birth to him, to his private enemy, in his very own thoughts; they were linked. It was another reason he had decided to entrap Sherlock rather than try to destroy him. Due to the link, he might be killed off as well if he succeeded. And he had no wish to commit suicide again.

So he concentrated on staying himself amidst the sensations and thoughts that surrounded him while executing his plan.

Slowly, he learned how to control dreams. He didn't know how long it took, and it wasn't important. Time was of no consequence in a person's head. It was a construct that men had first based on sunrise and sunset; it was dark here and would always stay dark. He had never bothered to try and keep track of time since he had woken up in his cell. In life, his other life, he had only paid little attention to the passing of hours, just as much as he needed, so why should he do so now?

He almost missed it when he found it. A thread of the feeling that had told him Sherlock was about to wake up; an unpleasant, unsettling terror, very nearly slipping past him as he tried to make sense of everything he was finding.

He followed it. He knew if he let it out of his grasp, it would be gone forever.

It led him to the dream that had inspired it. At first, he thought it was a memory. It was the day on the rooftop, and he passively watched himself commit suicide through another's eyes.

He only realized it was a dream when a shot rang out and Sherlock ran to the edge of the roof to see John lying on the street, blood flowing from the bullet wound in his head.

Sherlock's subconscious had recognized him as he strolled through the corridors of the mind palace. He smiled as he held unto the dream. It was no longer being dreamt, it was the memory of a dream, to be precise, but if he could change it...

He felt the urge to desist again, but he still tried to bend it to his will, and he succeeded.

Nothing about the rooftop, or himself. It would have been too easy to deduce who was behind it. He gave Sherlock other dreams – the fear of an abandoned child; lying awake at night scared of the dark; an empty field, unknown animals howling in the distance. Fears everyone had felt once in his life. And of course his biggest fear. Failing a case and losing John Watson and his other friends through his mistake.

He had to wait for the right moment to introduce the dream into Sherlock's sleep. He had grown accustomed to distinguish between his waking and sleeping periods; the mind palace felt oddly like a house whose owner was on vacation during the latter. He waited until he needed rest, until he could feel silence descend over the palace, and infused the dream into it by degrees.

He knew he had done well when the subtle terror he had felt while sneaking around reached new peeks. He smiled and felt himself growing stronger. The desire to dissolve lessened considerably. He had found a way in Sherlock's conscious. If he only found one to influence him when awake as well...

But he could be patient and work with dreams for as long as it took. He would never know the period of time that passed outside, but he felt that he had barely begun when the atmosphere changed. He crept out of the darkness and emerged into the mind palace once more to investigate.

It was dark and dreary, fear hiding in the corners. The dreams were doing their work.

He stood still and felt. If he could concentrate these feelings to certain places within the palace, Sherlock would be forced to move, to keep his conscious, or at least a big enough part of it, away. He would not wish to be afraid while working on his cases; it would hamper his investigations immensely.

He suddenly realized that Sherlock hadn't noticed him standing in the middle of a corridor for what might have been a long time. The consulting detective was already too unsettled to keep track of his mind palace.

Dreams and the subconscious. He had always been aware of their power, but seeing it in progress was awe-inspiring. Sherlock had been the master of his mind palace, and he wasn't anymore. All because of dreams.

If he had known what was going on, he would have rejected the possibility haughtily. But he didn't. He had no idea what was about to happen.

He could walk freely around even when Sherlock was awake, as long as he was careful, but it was even more useful to do it, as he had before, when the consulting detective was asleep and he could safely distribute the fear and panic as he saw fit while working on his dreams. He had learned that, as long as he didn't let go, he could split himself for short periods of time. He always returned quickly to the subconscious to merge when he felt weak, though, just to be sure.

It happened more and more rarely that he had to. Sherlock was confused because of the dreams, scared, unsure, and his control was slipping while his grew.

He filled the memory corridors Sherlock was less likely to go first, so he wouldn't realize that the reason of the fear he continually experienced was his greatest enemy alive and well in the one space he had thought safe of him. He decided against trying to fill his subconscious more than it already would through the natural connection. He didn't want Sherlock to go insane and end in a cell in the outside world. Half his fun would be gone then.

He had to be as fast as he could, while at the same time maintaining the same speed throughout. If he stopped or became slower Sherlock would notice. He had advanced far enough that the lack of his influence would be felt just as keenly as his taking over.

He was working his way through the tract that held Sherlock's childhood memories, occasionally being surprised at the harmony and ordinariness of it all – perhaps he should not have judged the consulting detective so harshly, how could he have been extraordinary with such a normal early life? – when something happened. The mind truly had mountains.

Sherlock was working; he could feel the excitement that always stirred him into action. Not even the fear he was spreading could cover it up. In the end, it only served his purpose since Sherlock was even more unlikely to look after a reason for his nightmares.

Later, he decided that the connection between the memory he found himself in – one of Sherlock's first experiments with a chemistry kit – and Sherlock experimenting in the kitchen of his flat – that suddenly transported him.

One minute, he was making his way through a seemingly endless line of Mycroft and Sherlock playing and studying together – how they had come to have such a twisted relationship, he had yet to find out, but he would, he felt certain, no secret was to be kept from him, not anymore – and then he could see.

For the first time since he had woken up chained in his cell, he could see.

He was watching Sherlock's hands filling some sort of liquid into a cup. The shock of finally being able to see the outside again almost made him stay, but then he realized that Sherlock would notice if he lingered, and he returned to the confines of the consulting detective's mind.

That one moment, that one picture, had been exhilarating. And Sherlock hadn't even noticed.

He must be closer to gaining control than he had thought.

It quickly became another one of his goals. See through Sherlock's eyes, each day for a longer period of time.

At first, it was only seconds, but eventually, he stayed for minutes, then hours. As long as he only observed, Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

Neither did John Watson know that their greatest enemy was watching him through his friend's eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stopped with his experiment and carefully put down the cup. His hands were shaking. What had happened? For a moment, he had thought – it had felt –

He couldn't describe what he had felt. But it had been wrong. Like many other things, these days.

He didn't feel like himself anymore. It was not a thought he had ever expected to have, but it was true. Something had changed, shifted inside him.

Even his mind palace was different. He went to it rather seldom – far more seldom than he had before it, whatever it was, began – but it was – there was –

He hadn't been alone. In his own mind, he hadn't been alone.

It was impossible. There was no one but him walking through his mind palace, even if it was no longer the calming and clean place it had once been.

The dreams were another matter. Instead of dreaming of John or his other friends dying, as he had before, he suddenly dreamed about memories he had repressed, when he had felt lost or sad as a child, and the pain was just as acute as it had been then. He could easily reason that the situation of being lost in a supermarket had not warranted being upset when he was awake; but in his dreams, he was five years old again and Mummy had left him in the store and he was never going to see Dad and Mycroft again.

He woke up with tears in his eyes and hated himself for it.

When the nightmares had first started, the feelings they created had only lasted as long as it took him to wake up. But in the last few weeks, they had lingered. He was always upset or sad or scared.

It reminded him of being dead to the world and dismantling Moriarty's web, but it had been easy to deal then. There had been so much to do, and he had had a reason for being upset.

But he was home. He was working. He had John. He had Greg and Molly and Mike Stamford. He had beaten Moriarty. Why would he feel these things? It made no sense.

Maybe that was what scared him the most. His world was built on sense. On deduction. On proof. Not on feelings he couldn't explain, moods he couldn't dispel.

He had got better at hiding them, and because he was forcing himself to rest longer than he usually would, he seemed well-rested despite the nightmares, so John suspected nothing. For a while, the doctor had been worried, based on the glances he threw Sherlock when he thought he wasn't looking and his emergency meeting with Greg. Apparently a little effort on Sherlock's part had been enough to convince him that nothing was wrong.

As long as Sherlock didn't know what was going on, he would believe it. He would not give his friend data that made no sense; he refused to panic about something he could not explain yet.

During the last few weeks, he had struggled with the idea that he might be developing a mental illness. But his symptoms fitted none he had researched, and he functioned just as well as he always had, even if he was constantly on edge.

He hoped he was right and that he simply wasn't too terrified of losing his mind that he refused to see it until it happened and he was irrevocably locked away.

No; he would keep watch. He would be careful. Neither John nor Mycroft – for once he found himself grateful for the constant supervision – would allow that. In fact, he was relieved that Mycroft had not yet reacted to his altered state of mind. If his brother didn't notice, whatever was happening couldn't be as dramatic as he made it out to be.

He hoped.

Before his mind had changed, before he could no longer feel safe in his mind palace, he would have scoffed at the simple suggestion of "hope". With his thoughts askew, he had to rely on feelings, hunches. In his work, he had several times done that, but never without a reason. He had no reason. Only that he felt – wrong. He felt wrong and he couldn't explain it, and his world built on reason was slowly crumbling.

And now that – presence. He had been filling the solution in one of the cups they didn't use anymore because the handle had broken off, when he had had the distinct feeling that he was no longer alone, causing him to put the cup down and looking around, only realizing that no one was there after he had been staring blankly at the kitchen for several seconds.

It had seemed so real. Someone had been standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. Standing very close. He had believed that John had come back from the store without him noticing, as he was wont to do when he was concentrating on an experiment.

But he was alone.

It was crucial in his work that he always knew when someone was around him. Many times, criminals had tried to sneak up on him and had failed because they had announced their presence with too heavy breathing or other small signs, and eventually he had developed a certain sense of whether or not someone was standing behind him. He should know. He should be able to tell. He had been able to when he had been destroying Moriarty's web – otherwise, he wouldn't have been sitting here. It had been dangerous work, and he had done it all alone. He would not have succeeded if he had been –

Like he was now. Unable to realize that he was alone.

What was going on?

He waited for ten minutes, his hands never ceasing to shake, but the feeling didn't come back. Against his better judgement, he made sure that no one had ever entered the flat; it was obvious that it was so.

He had been alone with a mind he could no longer control. It was the only explanation.

Sherlock was scared. The fear permeated through the mind palace. Apparently he had noticed something after all when he'd looked through his eyes. But he would never come up with the right explanation. It was too impossible.

He would not have believed it himself. Then again, maybe he would have. He was always glad to believe something entertaining.

Sherlock being aware that something had happened instead of blissfully ignorant made the game more interesting. He had grown somewhat careless since he had found that he was not immediately spotted when he left his cell during Sherlock's waking hours. It had grown a little boring, to be honest; what was manipulation without a challenge?

But sensing Sherlock's fear, he almost danced back to his cell. Sherlock knew something was there. He might not believe it, but he had sensed it.

His enemy finally knew they were playing. He felt like the day he had sent Sherlock the letter, fondly remembering forcing the woman to write it. The wait for the consulting detective's reaction had been delicious in itself.

It was tempting to make himself known, but until he had located something of Sherlock's conscious mind that he could attack at once, instead of running around in his mind palace and hope for the best, it was too dangerous. He didn't want a fight that he could win effortlessly, but he also didn't want a fight that he would lose to begin with.

If he lost, he lost. But he wanted a chance. He needed a chance. He had never been one for desperate measures – well he supposed his suicide could be called desperate, but really, he had been bored – and attacking after he had done everything not to be noticed yet...

No. It also would take away the fun of having Sherlock doubt his own mind, as doubt it he must. He had always wished for things to be clever. He wouldn't be able to tell how clever this way of fighting him was until the first great attack – and if that wasn't clever enough for him, it was not his enemy's fault.

He could not wait to see if he could access other sensory organs too. It had been a long time since he had tasted tea or heard music, other than in his or Sherlock's memories, and despite the details the consulting detective put into them, he was always left feeling unsatisfied. Perhaps he had always drunk a little too deep out of the cup of life to be limited to memories only. Sherlock really should have thought more carefully about what he was putting in his mind palace, so carefully constructed and guarded.

It was of no use now, though. Now he was here and he was playing.

And if he could follow the fear to its source, use it to navigate through the darkness of the subconscious, to Sherlock's innermost thoughts, the place where his conscious sprang from –

Fun times were ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

The fear grew stronger. Despite Sherlock's best efforts, he found himself making excuses not to go to bed. It wasn't noticeable to John because he had always slept less than average and he took care that his appearance stayed normal – he'd had enough of his suspicious looks when the nightmares had first started – but his situation became more and more frustrating as time went on.

He could not work on cases properly if he was scared the whole time. He could not verify facts if he could not go to his mind palace without noticing that it had become a dark and strange place. He did not know how. It was his mind. The building he had constructed. He had known every corner since he was a child. He should have noticed the changes sooner; it felt like everything had changed in a second, but that wasn't possible. Even if he was losing his mind, it didn't happen from one moment to the other. His mind palace must have been infested long before he had noticed any change. He blamed himself. He should have paid more attention. His mind was his most delicate instrument, but he had allowed himself to be distracted by experiments, cases, friends, to be swept away by comforting familiarity, and he was paying the price for it. If he told John, if he told anyone, he would soon be forced to see a doctor; if Mycroft was not already making preparations. His brother would be the first to notice the changes in him, he was sure. He always had been.

Being examined, his mind being torn apart in the attempt to explain what was wrong with it – the thought was more than he could bear. He would conquer the fear because he had to.

Sadly, this decision didn't help when Greg noticed his trembling hands at a crime scene. They were always trembling now, and the feeling that someone was standing behind him had become a frequent companion. He didn't even turn around anymore, so that he was surprised when the DI's voice ran out.

"Are you alright?"

He turned and found Greg frowning at him. His gaze was fixed on Sherlock's hands.

The DI had dismissed John's worry about Sherlock two or three months ago because he had seen nothing to worry about, but he had studied his friend closer since then and had noticed that he seemed distracted at time. He couldn't expect him to be the same he had been when he had disappeared, of course; but he had never seen that look on his face, and he had seen many. He didn't claim to be Sherlock's best friend, or even being regarded as a friend by him, but he knew him better than most. And John had been right. Something was wrong.

He should have known better than to ask Sherlock if he was alright, but it was the first thing that came to mind when he saw his hands shaking, hands that he had watched steadily filling acid in different containers and examining bodies; even when John had been in danger, his hands had never shaken.

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he expected the dismissive answer "Of course" and he was not disappointed. Sherlock then told him his deductions and all but ran out of the crime scene, John at his heels.

He wasn't even given the luxury of wondering whether he had imagined that Sherlock's hands were shaking when he caught Donovan's eyes across the room and saw that she was worried.

He would have to speak to John again.

Sherlock was furious, but he tried not to let it show as he waved down a cab. He was not angry at Greg; he was angry at himself. He should not allow irrational feelings to rule him.

"Swift exit" John commented as they sat in the cab, and he simply replied, "The case was boring".

It hadn't been, not really, but he wouldn't tell John. He would tell him about it once he had dealt with it. Maybe.

He spent the next few hours experimenting before retiring long after John had gone to his room. He needed the rest, even if he didn't want to sleep.

He dreamed of his mind palace. Until then, his dreams had been of faraway or not-existing places; but this was his mind palace, how it looked now; and he felt instinctively that he looked like he always did when he was walking through the hallways, as he had when he had first started working with Greg and realized the potential that lay in all the information he had collected.

The fear seized him suddenly and unexplainably, and he was running before he had decided to do so. Something was after him. He didn't know how he knew, but something was after him.

He saw a door he had never seen before but simply threw it open and fell into darkness.

It took him a moment to understand that he was in his subconscious, but he felt better. He only had to wish for a light for it to appear, and he sat down near the darkness, determined to find out what was wrong.

He felt someone moved and looked in a face that he had thought he'd never see again.

The thread of fear was not easy to follow. It ran through Sherlock's subconscious and conscious at the same time, and if he had ever been prone to despair, he might have. But he had always loved a challenge, so he happily kept following and losing the thread. He had no idea how Sherlock's true self materialize – or well, whatever he was supposed to call it – or if Sherlock even had an identity like himself.

He might not have. He had been created, recreated as he had been in life, to be locked away; everything in this palace was Sherlock's creation. But there had to be a source of each personality; there had to a place from which it sprang. And so he followed the fear, one of the first instincts of children. He had always appreciated it, instead of fighting it like Sherlock would undoubtedly have.

There had to be a solution. There had to be.

The thread he had been following felt different than the fear that permeated the mind palace all the time now. He had wreaked enough havoc with the nightmares to learn the difference. Sherlock was asleep; he had soon learned that it was easier to follow his feelings when he was. When he was conscious, he suppressed them. He couldn't when he was asleep and his subconscious took over.

There the fear was again. Without caring for caution as he had until this moment, he dashed forward through several floors and finally found another entrance into the subconscious he hadn't known about. They would appear occasionally; he was certain that it could not be controlled, neither by him nor by the consulting detective. While he had grown better at navigating in the darkness and had grown considerably stronger, he would have preferred not to have to dive in when he was so close, when he needed all his strength to focus on Sherlock instead of trying to keep himself together. Also, he had no idea what form Sherlock's conscious would take in the darkness. Maybe none at all.

But that would mean he couldn't win, and a game without the chance of winning was just like one without the chance of losing – none at all. And that would not do.

But he was following the fear, and he hoped – he had to –

There was a light. For the first time, there was light in the dark of the subconscious. It surprised him. Why would there be light?

It occurred to him immediately that of course Sherlock – if he was strong enough, if he was focused enough – would want a source of light to feel safe. If some part of him had fled into his subconscious. He delighted in the irony that this might well have happened as an unconscious defence mechanism. It was certainly clever enough for Sherlock for once.

He gently floated – he could not describe the sensation better – towards the light. The fear was still there, but he couldn't see anyone –

No. There was someone cowering at the edge of the shadows. So typical Sherlock, not to allow himself comfort when it was most needed.

He smiled and moved forward. The shape hadn't moved. As he came closer, it became clearer.

It was Sherlock, but a different version of him. He looked younger. Vulnerable. It was no wonder that he had cracked under the strain and run away.

He wondered if he would know him. Maybe this was a younger version, body and mind, one who had not yet gone through everything the consulting detective had.

He would gladly tell him who he was. What he could do.

But when he walked into the light, he saw immediately that Sherlock recognized him.

He grinned.

"You didn't think I'd stayed chained up when there are games to play?" he inquired, grinning.


	6. Chapter 6

The shock at seeing Moriarty when he had been certain that he was in a cell – even after he had seen him commit suicide, even if it was only a memory, a recreation of the consulting criminal, he had not felt comfortable with putting him in one of his normal rooms; any information he needed about him he could easily take from the cases he had solved, but when it came to his personality, it was another matter – helped Sherlock to think clearly again.

Maybe because his appearance explained what had happened. He was not losing his mind. He was not going crazy.

Moriarty had escaped and was working against him, changing his mind palace. He would have believed it to be impossible, but he could not doubt it, not after seeing the consulting criminal. He was dressed in the suit he had worn at the Pool – Sherlock must have subconsciously put it on him under the straight jacket when he had locked him away – and carried himself like he always had. There was no mistaking the gleam in his eyes.

Sherlock stood up. He would not allow himself to show fear in front of something he had created.

Moriarty's grin grew wider.

"Don't you have anything to say to me? It has been a while".

"So it was you all along" Sherlock stated.

"Of course. You didn't think any memory could do it, did you?" Moriarty asked, feigning hurt. Sherlock didn't reply.

"Come on" he whined. "I haven't had a conversation in forever – your memories can only replace the real thing for so long – "

"You have no business in my memories" Sherlock said simply. "You have no business in my mind palace".

"And what are you going to do about it?"

The question surprised him. Moriarty was watching him, waiting for his response. What could he mean? This was Sherlock's mind; he was only a memory. A shadow. It was Sherlock's mind palace. He simply had to delete him.

It startled him that he hadn't thought about it sooner. He had to delete him. All he had to do was get rid of the consulting criminal. He should have never allowed a likeness of him into his mind palace in the first place. He couldn't remember why he had.

He looked at Moriarty and decided that he had been arguing with an echo of his arch enemy long enough. He deleted him.

Nothing happened. Moriarty was still there. He blinked. The consulting criminal didn't vanish.

It was impossible. He should be able to destroy him.

Moriarty chuckled.

"I wasn't sure of course, but I took a gamble. It's half the fun, really". He waited, but Sherlock said nothing, still trying to make him disappear.

"Don't be a spoilsport. Start playing. You know why it didn't work. Don't you want to explain in a dramatic display of your intelligence?"

Sherlock understood. He had been a fool not to.

This was Moriarty's echo, one he had created to be locked away. But it was connected to many memories in his mind palace. It might draw his strength from there; its existence might have become independent to Sherlock's will; it might have learned to manipulate his thoughts.

There were too many conjectures, but anything was possible with the human mind. He had learned that long ago.

If Moriarty was indeed free to roam his mind palace –

Sherlock paled. He didn't know how long this had been going on. Perhaps it had only started a short time before the nightmares began, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe Moriarty had been wreaking havoc ever since he had locked him away, thinking that he could not get out, that he had beaten the consulting criminal once and for all.

Maybe he had been manipulating his thoughts since they had first met, since Sherlock had been able to create a mental image of him.

What if – what if he had influenced his work? What if he had put innocents in prison? What if none of what he had seen and experienced had been real?

He was getting ahead of himself; he was theorizing without data. He forced himself to calm down. His mind was on the line. He could not get distracted. He could not wonder what Moriarty had done until he investigated.

First of all, he had to get away. The time when he had enjoyed their game was long past. The game was not as important as his friends or his sanity; he had learned this after two years of fighting alone, dismantling Moriarty's web, doing things he had never thought he would do. The line between what he had hated and what he was had become blurred, and since then, the thought of playing a game with a criminal mastermind to distract himself had provoked nausea rather than excitement. He still enjoyed his work, solving cases, showing the police that he could do better than they, but he didn't enjoy games when too much was on stake.

"You are getting a bit slow" Moriarty commented, tilting his head to the side. "It won't be easy, deleting me. I'd say it was impossible, but – we've done impossible things before, have we not?" He smiled. "Like returning from the dead".

"You didn't" Sherlock all but snapped, wondering if he could simply force himself to wake up. Awake, he could figure out his next steps in the real world. He could alert his friends. There was no point in hiding what was going on anymore. It would endanger them. He would call his brother as soon as he woke up. It was better for him to be locked away like Moriarty had been, as he should have been, than risking his friends' and his city's safety. Moriarty running around freely, even if it was only in his mind, was too dangerous to play games with, too dangerous to consider for one second.

It would be argued that this was all a dream as, in fact, it was. And yet it was real. He couldn't doubt it. The moment he had seen Moriarty, everything had fallen into place.

If there was one thing he was afraid, he had admitted to himself on a dark night in Europe, hunting down a man like an animal through dirty streets, it was turning into the consulting criminal. His subconscious had felt that something was amiss, that Moriarty was trying to control his mind, and had tried to warn him. This had resulted in the nightmares and the constant feeling of dread. He felt better now than he had in weeks. Moriarty had been fighting him without Sherlock being aware of it, draining him, making him fear his own mind. The knowledge of what was going on helped. He would be locked up, possibly in a mental institution, until he could get the situation under control. If he never did – it was a little price to pay. London had suffered enough through Moriarty. He would ensure it wouldn't endure more.

"No, but I came close" Moriarty said cheerfully. "And as long as I am here – as long as you see me and talk to me – I am alive. You can't get rid of me, Sherlock. We are going to have so much fun..."

He would get rid of him. If nothing helped – if he couldn't win – he would destroy himself to kill Moriarty. And even if he was incapacitated, if he was unable to do it on his own, Mycroft would help. Sherlock had no illusions about his brother. He would kill him to save the country.

For now, he had to wake up. He had been trying to think about it since Moriarty had stepped into the light, but it didn't work. He would have to run and wait. Find a safe place. He had always kept a few memories that were important to him in an especially reinforced room. Mycroft would no doubt have found it sentimental, but there were several moments in his life he wanted to always recreate exactly. Mycroft telling him about pirates. The moment he could see Greg believing his deductions. Meeting John.

He had buried them so deep, had woven an almost impenetrable labyrinth around them so carefully while he had been away from London that Moriarty couldn't have found them yet. If he could get there, he could wait until he finally woke up and could act.

Without answering Moriarty's last remark, he ran. It was still his mind, he still had to have some control over it. He willed himself to find another door, one that would lead him near the wing he had dedicated to chemistry. From there, he could easily reach the memory room he was aiming for without giving away where he was going.

Just as he stumbled through the door that had suddenly appeared in front of him, he felt a strange lifting sensation and woke up, staring wide-eyed into his room.

He had escaped for the moment.


	7. Chapter 7

He had to act fast. The game was on, exhilaration razing through his veins. Sherlock was awake. He seemed not to want to play for some reason, so he'd have to make him. First and foremost, he couldn't allow him to warn anyone. Sherlock being taken away and locked up would run everything. He would live in a prison inside a prison. He couldn't have that.

So he left the darkness of the subconscious and concentrated. He had found access to Sherlock's eyes several times; there had to be one for Sherlock's mouth as well. If he could gain control...

Sherlock all but sprang out of the bed and razed up the stairs. He had to tell John – he needed the doctor to leave and take Mrs. Hudson with him, as well as alert Mycroft. He would not take any risks.

There it was – Sherlock was running up the stairs. He could see it through his eyes.

Moriarty was already trying to take control. He felt someone behind him again as he ran, knowing that no one was there; someone was in his head. He should have made the connection sooner, but he had never considered the possibility. He had been a fool. He had always prided himself on including theories in his thought processes that others called far-fetched or absurd; had always taken care to come up with even stranger ones than those he had already had so he wouldn't be surprised. But when it came to this, he hadn't even come up with it. He had never wondered if Moriarty could break out, if he could try to play games.

He had felt safe, superior, and he was paying the prize.

He flung the door open and stood at John's bed with two steps. The doctor awoke immediately, pointing the gun from his bedside table at him. He blinked, recognized him and let the weapon sink, clicking on the safety.

"How often have I told you to knock?" he asked with the resigned manner of a man who knew it was never going to happen. He looked at Sherlock and frowned.

"What's wrong?"

He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He tried to form the words, tried to warn John, tried to scream that Moriarty was back, was trying to destroy him through his own mind, but he couldn't. Something was making it impossible –

No, not something. Someone. The feeling of a presence behind him was stronger than ever.

It wasn't him who was controlling his mouth, it was Moriarty. He attempted to clamp it shut, in case the consulting criminal managed to make him speak, but just as he feared it, it happened.

"I think that some sulphuric acid would work better on the experiment I am conducting" he said excitedly. No, he didn't say it. Moriarty was saying it. He could feel his lips moving, he could hear his voice, but he had no control over anything, not even his limbs. He couldn't even use gestures to communicate.

John shook his head, but he was smiling. Sherlock watched with horror as Moriarty's trick worked and his friend didn't see his rushing into his room as anything else than a rather eccentric outburst of joy.

"Do what you have to do" he said, "but keep away from my shelf".

"Considering the fridge belongs to us both, it is ridiculous to talk about certain shelves being "yours"" Moriarty answered condescendingly and Sherlock was shocked at how well he could imitate him – he must have learned a lot about him while he had been roaming free.

He struggled, but to no avail. He couldn't even enter his mind palace. He could only watch and hope that Moriarty wouldn't attack John.

If he did – John was a soldier. But he wouldn't hurt him, even if his life was on the line. He knew it like he knew that would never hurt John. Moriarty could kill his best friend.

The consulting criminal had to feel his desperation, and he was undoubtedly enjoying it. Sherlock forced himself to relax. Struggling was not accomplishing anything; he had to calm down and think. Moriarty wanted to play. It was unlikely that he would kill John the first time he encountered him. Then again, the most dangerous quality about him had always been his unpredictability. He might kill him just to show Sherlock what he could do.

Still, the favour was in him keeping John alive simply so he had something to toy with. Sherlock would have swallowed if he had been able to as the consulting criminal continued to try and get John interested in the experiment, as he would have done, and the doctor was firmly pushing him towards the door because "Some people need rest".

Finally, he was standing in front of a closed door. At least John was alive.

This was... better than anything else he had ever done. It was delicious. It was exciting. It was thrilling. Maybe he had needed the extra incentive of Sherlock trying to warn John, but now he had his body under control. For the first time since he had died, he spoke and saw and felt. The doctor kept his room cool while he slept; the air drifting in from the windows caressed his skin.

No, not his skin. Sherlock's skin. Even as he assured John that nothing was wrong, he could feel Sherlock fighting, but he was –

It was difficult to describe, but apparently he had, almost as if by instinct, put the consulting detective in some sort of limbo. He was not in his mind palace, as far as he knew. He couldn't explain how he did. He could explain little. But he had managed to take control over his limbs, and it was providing him with enough distractions, especially since he could feel Sherlock trying to claw his way back into his own mind – the part he usually was in, that was. The temptation to kill John Watson this very moment was strong, but he resisted. It might be fun to show Sherlock that he was just as spontaneous as he had always been, but what then? He would have to hide the body, make sure Sherlock wasn't arrested for it, or he would be locked up. Again.

So he allowed John to push him out of the room. He walked down the stairs slowly and retired to Sherlock's bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He knew he probably didn't have much time. Sherlock would continue to struggle, and while he had access to his sensory organs for the moment, it was difficult to keep it. He was not used to this body, and he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel, to hear, to smell. It was much more... direct than his walks through the palace, than being in one Sherlock's memories. Already he was starting to get a headache, whether because of Sherlock's fight against him or his being where he had no reason or place to be and the subconscious reacting to it was impossible to determine, but he would not be able to walk and talk around much longer. It was frustrating, but what he had done once he could do again.

Just as he realized this, Sherlock won. He was back in the mind palace, lying on his back – or, to be precise, the back of his imagined body.

He needed to talk to Sherlock. He had to tell him while all these silly little ideas about telling people would not do. He wondered if he would have to wait for Sherlock to fall asleep, but it didn't matter. The consulting detective would come to him, one way or the other. He must have noticed by now that he couldn't put him back in his cell or delete him, so he must necessarily also be anxious to speak with him.

Sherlock managed to throw Moriarty back into his mind, but sadly he could not say how he had done it. He breathed heavily, leaning against his door.

He could have called Mycroft, but the first attempt to contact someone had led to Moriarty taking over, and he didn't want to cause a repeat so soon after the first experience.

There was only one thing to do.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, accessing his mind palace.

It was in a dreadful state. The floor was dirty and cracked at times, some doors hang from their hinges. He walked slowly as he tried to find out where Moriarty was.

He had not yet found his secret memory rooms. Of that he was certain. He had protected them to well. But as to the other rooms –

Then he realized. It was simple, really.

The water cast flickering lights on the ceiling. Moriarty was standing next to the pool, just like he had all these years ago.

He was smiling, happy to have his adversary back.

"I wanted to explain the rules before, but you ran off on me".


	8. Chapter 8

"Who says I am interested in playing a game? My reaction would suggest that I am not" Sherlock said calmly. All the panic he had felt before seeing Moriarty had vanished. The pool, the consulting criminal wanting to be distracted... it was familiar ground. He wasn't going to tremble with fear, even if he was alive in his mind.

"You don't have a choice" Moriarty answered flatly, apparently disappointed at Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm. "And why wouldn't you be? It must have been dreadfully dull without me... All these petty criminals with their easy-to-solve crimes... You must have been bored out of your skull".

In a certain way, it was true. He had had little demanding cases since he had returned, but most of his work had been satisfying none the less. Mysteries did not have to be complex to be interesting, and after two years of nothing but excitement, Sherlock appreciated the easier things in life like he hadn't been able to before. That didn't mean that he hadn't been bored. He had been, sometimes dreadfully so and then, just like in the old days, he had done experiments that sent John to the pub or made screeching noises on his violin until the doctor all but screamed down from his room that he needed rest. But he had learned to appreciate boredom. He would choose it over Moriarty's games any day. A few years ago, this would have been unthinkable.

"I am done playing games" he answered simply.

"As I said, you don't have a choice. Don't make me repeat myself. I hate that."

He heard the threat in his voice, but he didn't care. He meant it. Acting like he wanted to play had no advantages, especially since it was possible that Moriarty could read his thoughts.

"What are the rules?" he asked. He would have to play, but that didn't mean that he had to follow them. If he stayed strong, if he kept him away from his mouth and hands and eyes, Moriarty could do nothing, could threaten no one but Sherlock himself. And he didn't care if he lost his mind as long as he destroyed the consulting criminal in doing so. As long as the last remains of Moriarty were well and truly gone.

Moriarty pouted before his face became a blank mask. "Fine. Have it your way. You are not to alert anyone to what is happening".

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I can't have you running around telling the world. You would be locked up. I don't enjoy being locked up".

Sherlock waited for him to continue. He would not give him the satisfaction of trying to argue with him. The silence lasted until Moriarty huffed and threw his hands up in the air.

"Don't think you can trick me. You saw what happened when you tried to talk to John. What I have done once I can do again. And I will. But as long as you don't tell anyone, your friends are safe. I won't harm them".

"And others?"

"You can choose. Either you attempt to warn someone, and I will hurt those you care about, or you don't, and we play games. I'm too fast. Even if you were to tell, I would take control the second after and attack John. Or Big Brother. Or your dear landlady. Or anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity".

"You wouldn't know" Sherlock tried to object, but Moriarty simply smiled.

"Don't you think that I know your mind palace well enough by now to recognize what happens in the outside world simply by the mood changes. They are noticeable. I assume you didn't know – so proud of your clear mind, aren't you? But really, it's all about these emotions. They were what made you so ordinary in the first place". He looked sad, but was soon smiling again. "But this isn't ordinary".

Sherlock could only agree with him; and he had to abide by the rules, at least for now. Moriarty was right. He had taken control in the short amount of time Sherlock had run up the stairs. He could have hurt John then. Sherlock didn't know if he had truly won, or if Moriarty had decided that he wanted to play and had retreated into the palace. He didn't know what the consulting criminal could do. Or how long he had been doing it. Not to agree to anything he said at this stage would be dangerous. He had to carefully go over his mind palace, over every room, see what had changed. And he had to be careful not to let his friends worry about him. As soon as John said something... Sherlock swallowed. Moriarty was right about his emotions. He'd been panicked and nervous as he ran to John, and the consulting criminal had used it to his advantage. But he couldn't control his emotions. He had never been able to. He wasn't Mycroft.

He knew what he had to do as soon as he opened his eyes. He had to destroy Moriarty. If he couldn't warn anyone, he had to make sure he was gone, and there was only one way he could.

Death had not scared him for a long time. It didn't now. He simply had to keep Moriarty talking until he could leave.

"And what is the game, exactly?" he inquired. "You have not told me".

"And here I thought we understood one another..." Moriarty almost whined. "It's about this". His hand made a sweeping gesture.

He wanted to play to see who would control Sherlock, mind and body. He wanted to destroy him and take over completely.

Or – no, not destroy. Moriarty was too clever to risk his complete annihilation. He had committed suicide once. Doing it again would bore him. He would lock him up like he had done with him when he first created him.

"Finally. Really, you should be glad I'm back. You have been slacking".

He ignored the jibe, instead waiting patiently. Either Moriarty would attack, or he would let him go for now.

Moriarty was no fool. He never had been. He just preferred risk to safety, new sensations to boredom, and here lay the potential of an eternity of entertainment. He could tell what Sherlock was thinking; not because he could read his thoughts – he was glad about that, it would have been awfully boring otherwise – but because Sherlock would have jumped off that roof with or without a plan to save his friends, he felt certain. He had seen it in his eyes. Sherlock was, and always would be, bound by the fact that he had a heart underneath the persona he had chosen to craft around himself.

He would try to protect them. And since he couldn't warn them, he would try something else. He would try to destroy them both.

He was prepared, of course.

For a while, he had been working on feeding suggestions into Sherlock's subconscious; finally, he had started to see through what was not really darkness but small trails of thoughts and memories interweaving. He hadn't seen anything but black when he had found Sherlock, but that had probably to do with the light the consulting detective had conjured up.

The very first suggestion he had carefully merged into the stream that was constantly moving about him had been one that Sherlock would encounter very soon. He smiled.

"This has been a very fascinating conversation, but I have to go. Remember the rules, Sherlock".

He turned around and left, wondering if maybe he should attempt to make it impossible to Sherlock to speak about this to his friends. He might have to eventually, but for now it was too enjoyable to feel him squirm as he couldn't because he wasn't allowed to rather than because it was impossible.

Sherlock wasted no time. The minute Moriarty's back was turned, he opened his eyes and sat up on his bed.

He had to act fast.

He didn't fear death, but he feared what it would do to John. To Mrs. Hudson. Greg. He was tempted to leave an explanation, but who would believe him? He was vain enough not to want to be remembered as crazy. His friends would have to live with his death; that was quite enough.

He took his gun out of his bedside drawer. His thoughts kept returning to John, but he tightened his grip on the handle. He couldn't dwell. He had to get rid of Moriarty, and this was the only way he could be certain.

He raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

A moment later he realized he was still alive, the gun still pressed against his temple.

Another moment later, he noticed that he had never pressed the trigger. His finger was frozen. He couldn't press the trigger.

He let the gun sink, unloaded the gun and attempted to press the trigger while he was holding a safe gun against his temple.

He could.

When he let the gun drop, his hands trembled.

He couldn't kill himself. He was physically incapable of it.

Moriarty had won the first round.


	9. Chapter 9

The distress Sherlock felt ran through his mind palace, telling him that he had succeeded. He laughed as he exited the subconscious. Now they were playing.

It was Sherlock's move. No doubt he would attempt to trap him again. Or modify him in some way. He couldn't wait.

Sherlock put the gun away and willed his hands to stop trembling. Of course Moriarty would have taken precautions. Sherlock had taken a long time to realize that there was a consulting criminal in London, and he had been in his mind for years, leaving his cell without him noticing. He was capable of anything.

But so was he. Moriarty had called him ordinary, but he had also realized in the end that they were alike – just enough alike to make Sherlock as dangerous as he had ever been; and he had proven it with those two years during which he had taken care of his web. He had obviously not yet seen what he had done, had not stumbled across the memories. Sherlock wasn't surprised. He had buried them deep. But he would take all the advantage he could get, and being more dangerous than Moriarty thought right now was an advantage.

If he had to unravel his own mind to beat him, so be it. If he turned into a senseless mess who lived in a mental hospital, so be it. But win he must. For his friends. For London.

Sherlock didn't come to see him. He was probably analyzing the whole thing, trying to find a way out. He could wait. He didn't have anything else to do, and he was enjoying the thought that Sherlock had no plan for once. How could he plan for something like this? Jim himself didn't know how he had even found it possible to escape and attack, so how could Sherlock?

He might try to find out when he was bored, but it was unlikely that he ever would be, and it didn't matter why he existed. What mattered was that he did exist and that he could play. And he couldn't get bored. There was too much going on in Sherlock's mind.

It was ironic that Sherlock, after watching him die in the real world, had brought him as close to Heaven as he ever would be.

While Sherlock was moping, he might as well entertain himself, and he strolled off in search of a memory room. Until then, he had not paid much attention to the memories, unless he had watched them out of frustration because he hadn't found access to the subconscious or Sherlock's eyes; it was time to take a more careful look.

He sighed when he saw that he had arrived at yet another happy childhood memory. It was strange for Sherlock to keep so many. Then again, the consulting detective was nothing if not sentimental. Otherwise, he wouldn't keep his pet around.

It suddenly occurred to him, as he was watching Mycroft chase a young Sherlock around, whether he could change his memories. It would be an entertaining exercise, but if he should succeed, he would change Sherlock as well, and he might end up with someone who wasn't fun at all. He would probably try later, but not until they had played for a while.

Sherlock stood up. There was no point staying on the bed and feeling pity for himself if he could do something, and he had research to do. He had only ever learned about mental illnesses as far as he needed to know about them for his work. Moriarty might well just be a delusion created by his mind. If that was the case, there had to be something he could do. He feared taking medicaments that could have side effects, but if it was necessary, he would. He couldn't tell a doctor; as long as there was the chance that Moriarty was truly alive in his mind, as long as it was the best explanation he had and he didn't find a description of a mental illness that explained everything, he would not tell anyone. He didn't like the bargain he had struck, but it was the only way his friends were safe.

He knew his logic wouldn't convince anyone. He knew everyone would think he was insane. In fact, there was a very good chance that he was, but for the certainty he had felt when he had seen Moriarty. He was real. He was guilty of influencing his mind, polluting his mind palace. And Sherlock had to fight him.

He left the flat without telling John. The doctor would have questions when he returned, but for now he needed to be alone with his thoughts, and he needed to go to the library.

Normally, he would have used his smart phone to access the information he needed, but he didn't want his research to be traceable. Least of all he wanted his brother to realize what he was doing and why he was doing it. Once he was in the library and stayed out if the reach of the security cameras, he could claim that he had looked up chemicals or famous criminal cases; no one had to know that he had been collecting information about mental disease.

He raised a hand and a cab stopped in front of him. He told the driver tensely how to get to the nearest library – he didn't want to waste time by him taking a different route – and looked out the window.

London had not changed since yesterday. The city was unaware of the danger that slumbered in its midst.

Moriarty. The man who had been responsible for most that was evil and hidden in their old city, the man who had almost let out dozens of dangerous prisoners, ruined the most important bank of the country and stolen the crown jewels on one day. And he was alive. As alive as he would ever be. It had been foolish to copy him. He must already have been insane before Moriarty had wreaked havoc, or he wouldn't have done it. He should have contented himself with the memories he had of him, instead of shutting him in a cell because he couldn't bear the thought of him, couldn't bear the resemblance between them anymore. It was his entire fault.

And if anything should –

No. He wouldn't allow it. His friends would be safe. The city would be safe. If push came to shove, he would have himself killed. Mycroft might be persuaded to do it. Or order it, at least. But die he would, if it was absolutely necessary.

He arrived at the library and exited the cab, not looking at the driver as he paid him. He had visited it often enough so that he knew how to avoid the cameras – even if he made sure to be caught once or twice so that Mycroft wouldn't think he was evading them. His brother must not get suspicious. He would not stop until he had found out the truth, and Sherlock would end up in a hospital before he knew what was going on. And he had to know before he made a decision. His whole life, he had resented intrusion. He wouldn't allow his brother to put him away or have him killed until he was sure he was making the right decision.

He soon found that most of the books were helplessly inadequate. While case studies were useful in his field of work, he couldn't see how he was supposed to determine whether he was developing an illness through someone else's unique experience. A few books were more academic, however, and offered lists of symptoms he could use.

He worked as fast as he could while still being diligent; he was not going to spend too long at the library, just enough time to safe all the useful information –

He let the book he was reading sink when he realized.

He no longer had a safe place where he could put everything he saw or read. If Moriarty gained access, he might make him think that he was insane, and –

He couldn't worry about that. Too many variables. So he simply kept reading and eliminated all the diseases that didn't fit.

He quickly decided that none did. As far as he could tell, the closest his situation came to was a split personality, but he wouldn't be discussing rules with his other persona in his mind palace in that case. And he should not be able to hide his illness. John should have noticed – long before he had.

After a few hours of research, he came to a conclusion.

He might not be insane. Or, rather, not more insane than he had believed himself to be before he had entered the library. He figured it was good news, but on the other hand, it meant that Moriarty was alive and ready to strike.

And he didn't know if he wasn't already starting the game.


	10. Chapter 10

Something was missing. He was standing in a large, airy room, full of sunshine and, to be frank, rather cliché and boring happiness. It was Sherlock's room on John. He rolled his eyes as he found yet another moment in which John Watson had stared contemptuously at someone who had called Sherlock a freak. He was starting to think that their relationship was unhealthy. Surely a man who had seen the battlefield shouldn't worship a consulting detective so much, even if he was the only one in the world. And said genius should not memorize every single thing the doctor had ever done.

That was it, he suddenly realized. That was what was missing – he wasn't looking at everything the doctor had ever done. That would include meeting Sherlock, and the memory was missing.

Sherlock must have made a special room for it. Maybe he had a special room for all memories that were important to him. If there was such a room, it would be deeply hidden; it would contain everything Sherlock treasure most.

He smiled. Looking for the room was certainly one way to distract himself while he waited for Sherlock's next move.

Proving that he wasn't mad was not as calming as he had thought it would be. Because it meant that Moriarty was indeed in his mind, and he couldn't delete him. If he could sever all the ties that linked him to the memories in his mind palace... But that was impossible. He had done many impossible things, but he doubted that he could accomplish that. It would involve too many risks, would rip too great a hole in his life. He had worked so long on the case that he might very well just delete whole years. And he didn't know what that would cost him. He had changed since he the day he had first learned about the consulting criminal. His friendship with John – his relationship with Greg, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft – had evolved, become stronger. He would kill the man he had become.

He would have been ready to pay the prize if he had been assured that it would destroy Moriarty once and for all; but he wasn't. He couldn't be. And if Moriarty survived, how would he fight someone he didn't recognize?

He was aware that, in Moriarty's game, it was his turn; but he had no idea what the next move was. First, he had to create a safe place, he decided. He would have to go to his room of treasured memories, make it into even more of a fortress than it already was. Create an access code. Make sure he was the only one who remembered it –

It sounded impossible. But since he had the most dangerous man he had ever met in his head, he decided that the word had become all but meaningless.

He would admit that John being arrested because he hit the Chief Superintendent was a funny sight. Even at the time, he hadn't believed that the doctor would turn against Sherlock like the public had, although he had included the possibility in his plans. But soldiers were loyal, and he was an adrenaline junkie; not to mention that Sherlock had saved his life – he had looked into John Watson, just like he'd looked into Sherlock when he had first learned of their existence, and it wasn't difficult to read between the lines of his therapist's reports and realize where he had been headed. He would never have betrayed him. He would never have believed the lies, no matter how well constructed they were. He was still proud of his Rich Brook idea. It was a pity no one but Sherlock had got the joke.

But back to the memory at hand. Or, rather, memories. He had not yet figured out how they ran into one another, how they were connected. It might be that it was one of those secrets the mind would never reveal to him. It would be a pity, but he would accept that explanation. A little unpredictability was always good. It kept things refreshing.

It was remarkable that Sherlock had managed to build a mind palace at all. He was familiar with the technique and knew it was meant to help store information; but Sherlock had put a hold on his whole conscious, put it in boxes, constructed a house around it. Anyone who thought Sherlock was a crazy, spontaneous madman should take a look. He was borderline compulsive. Jim had always preferred to keep his mind the mess it was. It was much more fun that way. But Sherlock? He had controlled it like he had controlled everything in his life – even his drug use, if the memories were any indication.

He smiled. Not anymore. He didn't control his own mind anymore. He wished he could actually hear his thoughts, but for whatever reason, that seemed to be impossible.

He could, of course, take control over him again. For a short while. Maybe he was working a case. It would be nice to see that DI again, and John... solve a murder...

Having made his decision, he quickly strolled out of the room and retraced the steps he had taken when Sherlock had tried to warn John.

Since he had learned who was behind it, the feeling that someone was standing too close to him had never left him. As he trudged up the stairs, he felt it grow stronger, but dismissed it as his imagination; he was still too emotional. He had to calm down and think. He knew he wasn't mad. He knew Moriarty was in his head. What now?

It was his last thought before suddenly everything went black.

There was no struggling Sherlock this time. He had moved slowly, instead of frantically as before, and as a result had taken control so completely that Sherlock had blacked out.

Interesting. Maybe Sherlock was lying unconscious in the mind palace; maybe he could have found him; but he didn't see why he should look for him. Not yet, at least. If he trapped him now... That would just go against all the rules. He had to wait for Sherlock to make his move.

That didn't mean he couldn't have fun in the meantime, however. And it was much easier to move when Sherlock was unconscious. He strolled up the stairs, imitating the consulting detective's steps. John was in the living room, drinking tea. This time, it was even more exhilarating than last night. Then he had only been trying to save the game. He just wanted to amuse himself now.

The doctor looked up and smiled at him – at Sherlock. He quickly nodded at him, like he had seen Sherlock do countless times when he had still been collecting information on him and had watched him much like his bog brother would, through security cameras.

"Where were you?"

"Library" he said simply. "I needed to do some research on toxins".

John nodded. "And the experiment?"

His lie last night. He had almost forgotten about it, but he answered "I decided that knowing about neurotoxins would..."

It wasn't necessary to explain more because apparently John was satisfied as he stood up and moved to the kitchen to make tea. Sometimes it seemed like this was all he ever did when they were in the flat and he was awake.

He was somewhat taken aback when John offered him the cup. It had been so long since he had held something real and hot, and he almost shuddered as Sherlock's hands warmed.

"Is everything alright?" John asked, frowning, and he nodded as he took a sip and forced himself not to wince. He would have thought Sherlock would have better taste. This was much too bitter. He'd get used to it.

He couldn't suppress a smirk as he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. Sherlock Holmes, having tea with his best friend in their flat. A madman in a good man's body. Everything he could do... the possibilities were endless.

Speaking of possibilities, someone rang the bell and he heard Mrs. Hudson shuffle out of her flat to open the door. Ah, the good landlady. It was more than probable that someone wanted to see Sherlock, but she still would open the door and greet every newcomer politely. He supposed it served well to calm them before the whirlwind that were Sherlock's deductions swept over them.

He recognized the footsteps and his heart beat faster, exhilaration racing through his veins. Soon enough Lestrade came in and greeted them before explaining there was a case.

On his very first day he could hold on for longer in Sherlock's body, he could go to a crime scene, full of policeman who had sworn to protect their great city, unknowing that their greatest enemy walked among them.

It was delicious, just delicious.

If John noticed his enthusiasm as they left, he took it as Sherlock being excited because they hadn't had a case in a week.


	11. Chapter 11

After his talk with John, Greg had paid more attention to Sherlock on crime scenes, but luckily had soon come to the conclusion that his friend's worry was exaggerated. At first, he had believed that sometimes Sherlock reacted a little slower than normally or that there was a strange expression in his eyes, but he hadn't noticed anything abnormal for weeks now. And Sherlock happily bouncing down the stairs to go to a crime scene wasn't any reason for concern. On the contrary. John seemed as happy as he could be as he followed him with a fond smile, and Greg shook his head as he walked down the stairs.

Sherlock waved down a cab and he and John disappeared into it without another word as Greg returned to his car. Sherlock's enthusiasm was infectious; he was looking forward to arriving at the crime scene and immediately told himself to stop smiling. He was after all going to see a corpse, and one – or, to be honest, two – hyperactive detectives were enough. Even if Donovan had tried to be more understanding since Sherlock had come back.

The victim's name was Martin Hunter. He had been found by his housekeeper this morning. To his surprise, it had been Donovan who first suggested they should call Sherlock. He had still been looking for evidence when she had approached him, mainly because Sherlock didn't tolerate being called for easy cases.

The moment she asked, he'd agreed and been on his way. There were no clues whatsoever that pointed to the killer; the house hadn't been broken into and there was no trace of a fight. Martin Hunter had suffered a stab wound in the heart; that was all. He had apparently fallen where he had been struck. According to a first assessment of the pathologist, he had been killed around 4 am; they would have to wait what John and Molly said, since they were the only doctors Sherlock trusted with dead bodies.

The consulting detective strolled into the crime scene as usual, giving Donovan a curt nod. He had never blamed her for Moriarty's plan, as far as Greg knew.

And yet... There was something in his eyes when he looked at the Sergeant, something that looked like a strange triumph. He didn't like it, but it was gone by the time Sherlock kneeled besides the body, so he might have been mistaken.

Sergeant Donovan looked terrified. At least to him; she could hide her feelings well if she chose. When it came to her disdain for Sherlock she had never done so, which was why she was still scared he would blame her for falling for Jim's plans. Of course, Sherlock would never do that. He was too good. But since she had never seen anything human in him...

As he nodded at her, she imperceptibly flinched, and he had to remind himself not to smile. Sherlock, according to his memories, didn't consider Donovan important. Smiling at or talking to her would appear strange. After all, two of the people who knew Sherlock best were in this room, and it was only because Martin Hunter had not had a security system that Big Brother wasn't watching.

He'd recognized him immediately. He'd been part of a small gang operating in the North of town; not exactly smart, but reliable and asking no questions as long as he was paid. He'd been a good contact. Not that he'd known who he was talking to exactly.

He wouldn't have thought that martin was important enough to kill, he pondered as he imitated Sherlock's way of investigating a crime scene. He was actually glad that he was in the mind of the younger Holmes and not the older because Sherlock moved and around crime scenes he was practically energetic. As Mycroft Holmes, he could have done much more, gained much more power; by the Ice Man was too collected and too unmoveable to be great fun, and he deserved to play after he'd managed to break out.

He couldn't really deduce like Sherlock did; he had never had the training Mycroft had given his brother, and even after having seen some of the memories of those times, he still lacked the motivation to learn. What good would it do? He was a creature of chaos, not of order; he found no pleasure in being able to tell people their lives story. He didn't want to know about people's lives, he wanted to make an impact on people's lives. Granted, mostly negative impact, but it still counted.

He didn't have to pretend much, though. He was already certain that no business rival would have killed Martin Hunter; he'd been a good man, but he'd never have been a leader. He would follow whoever was strongest. There was no need to kill him, even in a gang conflict. So the motive had to be private. There were no pictures or other items in the house that indicated a woman was regularly staying or living here, but he had condoms in his bedside drawer and his phone, which had been found on the body, showed that he had been in frequent contact with someone called Linda. It was safe to assume that Linda was a married woman – probably wed to one of his colleagues – and that he had found out. The efficiency at dispatching Hunter assured him that this had been done by a professional. Just not during business hours.

He quickly related his findings, pointing out the man's tattoos as proof that he had been part of organized crime and showing Linda's number, and Lestrade was overjoyed. Once, when he had just begun to plan his exit, he had considered turning him against Sherlock too, assuming that enough evidence would cause him to arrest the consulting detective. He recognized how foolish the thought had been. If there was someone whose loyalty to Sherlock could equal John's, it was Lestrade.

"I'll take care of Linda's husband. Can't be difficult to find" he said, and Jim agreed with him. Hunter's gang hadn't been one of the more clever ones. The culprit would simply have gone back to his life without even telling them that Hunter was dead, so that the gang wouldn't have switched quarters. More likely than not, the murderer would be arrested within the next few hours.

Now came the tricky part – he had to convey that he was frustrated because of the easy case, while at the same time projecting a certain warmth that had entered Sherlock's voice when he was talking to his friends since his return. It was good that he had spent so much time exploring the mind palace instead of plunging right into mind control, because it enabled him to perfectly fake Sherlock's mannerisms. He had watched them often enough, and knew how high to raise his hands, how to emulate his voice, how to insult a technician who had stepped on an almost invisible drop of blood. Lestrade listened to him complacently, and Donovan patiently waited in the background, content to let him have this as long as he didn't bring up the two years he had spent dead.

No, not he – Sherlock. He was really getting into his role. The realization made him smile, perhaps a little too widely, since Donovan took a half-step back and Lestrade frowned. Within one second, however, they were back to normal; he had quickly schooled his features and their reactions had been more or less unconscious, so he wasn't in any trouble.

He and John were sitting in a cab on the way back to Baker Street – he didn't know why, but whenever Sherlock raised his hand, a cab automatically appeared – and the doctor studied his features.

"That was very quick. You sure you're alright?"

He was asking if he was bored, of course. John was still worried about Sherlock's former drug use – as if he had taken anything since he had come back – and he would have found it tedious if he didn't have to act.

"There are a few Bow Street cases that need to be solved" he explained. John shook his head in exasperation.

"They don't sound very urgent".

"All of them are urgent until they are solved".

It was Sherlock's old answer, but it reassured John, who simply nodded and turned to look out of the window.

He did the same as he contemplated his options.

He didn't want to build up his web again. He'd done it once before. It was nothing new. Create new cases, on the other hand – take control and commit murder and then feel Sherlock's despair, especially if he left evidence that incriminated innocents that the consulting detective couldn't disprove...

It sounded wonderful. He would not yet begin; he had to make sure he could maintain control first. He could already feel himself tiring, and it hadn't been an hour yet. Sherlock would wake up soon. But once he could do what he wanted...

It would be him against Sherlock in the real world again. And this time, there was more at stake than Sherlock's life – his very sanity.


	12. Chapter 12

He woke up and found himself in a corridor he usually – well, not avoided, but tended to ignore. It was the one who held his memories of the two years spent away from London.

In the next moment, he sprang up when he realized that he hadn't entered the palace voluntarily. He tried to leave, but to no avail, and knew what had happened.

Moriarty had taken control again. He must have grown bored waiting for Sherlock to make the next move. And this time, he didn't know what was going on in the outside world. He couldn't see or hear anything. Because he had not found the paths Moriarty used – he hadn't yet had the time to look for them, and before, looking for a connection to his senses had been perfectly useless since he had never believed that he would one day be locked in his mind palace – all he could do was go to the place they were most likely to be.

Since he had cleaned and reorganized his mind palace many times, he decided that he should look near the science corridor, namely biology. John had once called his knowledge in this respect "unsystematic", simply because he didn't include many topics the doctor had learned in medical school. He had never been interested in how to save a life, other than treating small wounds or recovery position, nor in simple illnesses; he had been fascinated by anything he considered useful for his work.

Necessarily, after having stumbled upon a case where the killer had gouged the victim's eyes out, he had collected every information about the organ. If there was a link to his eyes somewhere, surely it would be near these rooms.

He deplored the state of the building as he hurried towards them. How he could have overlooked it was a riddle he wasn't sure his mind could have solved in its best state. He didn't even know how much he still had control over; Moriarty might have sent him here, having him believe that he needed to go to the science rooms, instead of where the path actually lay.

As of yet, he had no evidence that Moriarty could implant thoughts, he told himself angrily, and moved forward. The corridors had always been large, airy and light; while he had to walk down dark alleys frequently enough in the course of his life, he had no desire to do so in his own mind as well. The parts of it he could organize would always be bright and easily to navigate.

He seemed to meet shadows at every corner since he had noticed something was wrong. It didn't feel like the building he had started to design when Mycroft had taught him the technique in his youth (and as he remembered the sunny, warm day he suddenly found himself grateful that he had never been interested in his brother's work; Moriarty would have used it against him, London and the country if he could) anymore either. While he had never paid much attention to the atmosphere – it had always been pleasant, perhaps an unconscious adjustment during construction – never once had it been menacing or mysterious. He adored mysteries in his work. In his mind, he needed order. He needed clarity. Moriarty, of course, knew this and had first brought terror and nightmares to unsettle him, and it had stayed and changed his airy rooms and corridors into dark, clustered places in which he could barely see a few feet in front or back. Some seemed longer or shorter than he remembered as well.

The damage that had been done might be irreversible. Until now, he had not allowed himself to dwell on it. He recognized this as a weakness, naturally – he couldn't expect to beat Moriarty if he didn't include all factors in his assessment of the situation – but he had been focused on calming down, become rational again, and this topic would have made it difficult. Realizing there was no way around it when he saw the chaos Moriarty had caused, he pondered it with indifference. If he had to spend the rest of his life afraid of his own mind, whether he be victorious or not...

He knew what he would do then, what he had to do then. If he defeated Moriarty and realized his mental health was to upset, if he feared becoming what he had always felt he might have become if he had been a little more insane and a little less inclined to solving crimes instead of committing them, if he wasn't able to continue working, if his friends saw what he had turned into –

It would be time to draw the consequence. After he had won, Moriarty's programming must disappear with its creator, and even if it didn't, he would have enough time to do it himself before he brought everything to an end.

He might die one way or the other because of his stupidity of chaining the consulting criminal. The punishment fit the crime. It had been incredibly idiotic not to let him just live on his memories. He had been weak and scared.

No wonder Moriarty had chosen fear as his weapon, since it was what brought him into existence in the first place.

And yet –

How complete could Moriarty be? Sherlock had never learned anything about his origins, other than when he began to provide services to the criminals of London. Many aspects of his personality, of his experiences must be missing. What kind of creature was he? Did he notice his own shortcomings? Did he perhaps draw not only from Sherlock's memory of him, but of Sherlock himself? Sherlock had never doubted that he would have made a good criminal, even if in many respects – his role as a planner and supervisor, rarely venturing out except when he decided that none of his employees could be trusted – Moriarty resembled Mycroft more than he did Sherlock, although he probably had never recognized this. If this Moriarty could harness the darker aspects of his personality, it would make him stronger and more unpredictable, since no man could ever claim to truly know himself. There was too much hidden in the shadows of the mind to ever see completely clearly. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had continued building his mind palace to begin with. To have some semblance of structure.

In his other cases, he could look at the evidence and follow clues, leaving him little time to theorize. In this one, fighting within his head, he could do little but. It distracted him from pushing forward. At least he had reached the science corridor now. It had taken long, far too long; even his movements had become restricted since Moriarty had escaped. Maybe he had changed the outline of the palace – but he would have noticed that; no, it must have to do with the fear he was continually experiencing, the shadows that made it difficult to see and find his usual sag ways. One of the disadvantages of structuring his mind – the only disadvantage until the consulting criminal – was that he couldn't jump from room to room unless he built a connection first. Otherwise the whole exercise would have been fruitless. Normal people jumped from memory to memory, from association to association, from detail to detail without noticing that they did or why they did and in the process lost much of the abilities every mind had. To bring order into the chaos meant to let go of a certain part of spontaneity – and he was aware that John would have laughed, had he expressed the sentiment – but it made it easier to use the power of his brain. So he had to walk from room to room if he hadn't made sure that he could jump to certain others first. It had never bothered him, and he was determined that it shouldn't even in this situation. At least Moriarty had not landed in a mind already as chaotic as the minds of average people; it would have been easier to turn him insane.

The room on the eyes – he wrenched the door open. There had to be something here. There had to be.

Moriarty could not have spent much time here. It was still clean and light, and Sherlock sighed with relief. He closed his eyes and began to search; something, a glimmer of a connection he had never established but that must be there because the sensory organs had to communicate with the mind –

And suddenly he could see and hear himself speak as he told John about a case he had not solved but Moriarty had while he had been unconscious.

The rage he felt as his best friend looked at the consulting criminal like he always looked at him because he thought he was him made it easy to win this time. He forced himself forward and was in control with his body.

Thankfully, Moriarty, who was once more in an undetermined location in his mind palace, had just finished the story and John didn't question his lapse into silence. He was used to it.


	13. Chapter 13

He was not disappointed to be ripped out of the conversation. He couldn't expect to have all the fun; he had to let Sherlock have some control over his body as well, or it wouldn't be a game. And he had been done with explaining the case anyway.

John had looked at him with bright, happy eyes. It was obvious that he was still awed that his friend had returned from the dead. Jim wasn't surprised that he was single again. He would have left a man who looked at another man like that as well.

Sherlock must have woken up and found a connection between his mind palace and the outside world. It might have been the same Jim used, but it was impossible to say how many there were, and in the end it wasn't important. He wasn't going to sever the connection; once he had had enough of the game, he would ensure that Sherlock couldn't use them anymore. That was all.

Right now, he could move unhindered; the consulting detective must be too relieved to have his body back to care much for him at the moment. He wondered if he should try working on his memories, just a little, just to practice.

He smiled.

After Sherlock had stopped talking, John had stood up to make some tea, and he was left alone with his thoughts. They were not pleasant. Moriarty had not only looked through his eyes once more, talked with his voice, solved a case, but he had knocked him unconscious. The last time, while he had not been successful, he had at least been able to fight. He had watched in horror, but he had watched. He determined that he had been unconscious for an hour. Much could happen in an hour. An hour at Moriarty's disposal...

He might just as well have woken up next to John's body, drenched in his blood. Or at the crime scene to find Greg dead. Moriarty could have done everything he chose to; it was only luck and his idea of fun that he hadn't. He could destroy Sherlock's life and that of many others in the blink of an eye. He could want to keep playing. But he could change his mind any time. Someone who killed himself because he was bored was capable of anything.

He accepted the cup John offered him. His hands were shaking slightly, but the doctor didn't notice.

Greg should have been content. Thanks to Sherlock deductions, the killer was behind bars; he had already confessed. Another case closed.

But he was nervous. He couldn't pinpoint the reason, but he was nervous. Even a little scared. He didn't understand, but he had learned to trust his instincts. In his line of work, he had no other choice. They had never misled him; not when he had met Sherlock, not when he had arrested a suspect his superior had deemed innocent –

And he wasn't going to mistrust them now. But he didn't know what he was supposed to do.

He suddenly thought of Sherlock. But his instinct could certainly have nothing to do with him? He had just seen him. Sherlock and John were fine; in fact, Sherlock had been delighted to have a –

That was what was bothering him. Even as Sherlock had complained about the simple case, he had still been happy, happier than he had ever been when he had realized that he had left his flat for no good reason. He should have welcomed the change, but he didn't. He knew Sherlock, and this behaviour was completely unlike him.

Maybe he was reading too much into it. John hadn't seemed concerned.

But –

He had always understood Sherlock in a way the doctor couldn't. John and Sherlock had clicked when they had first met, but Greg knew the consulting detective's passion for solving crimes, his frustration when a case led to nothing because he felt the same. Granted, he had never been angry because a case was too easy, but he could imagine what Sherlock experienced in such a moment, and it was far from what he had seen today.

He really shouldn't worry. Sherlock being polite and happy even under such circumstances as had usually caused him to throw a tantrum was a good thing, wasn't it?

He would have thought so before Sherlock disappeared and he mourned for two years for a man who was very much alive and unravelling the most dangerous criminal web the world had ever seen by himself. He had once predicted that Sherlock could become a good man, without realizing that he already was, he just preferred not to show it. And if being this good man meant that he was grumpy because a crime was too easy, so be it.

He didn't need or wish him to change. Sherlock, as far as he could tell, was comfortable with the no longer a high-functioning sociopath he was, so why would he? Why the sudden glee at a crime scene that provided him with little to no distraction?

John wasn't worried, he repeated to himself. John wasn't worried; John was around Sherlock almost every waking second; so there was nothing to worry about. He had come to him with his concerns but was now certain that he had been mistaken. Which meant Greg should be as well.

And yet – Sherlock's smile today right after he'd told him not to call him out "until he found at least a seven"...

He decided that he would keep an eye on his friends. It might be nothing; he hoped it was nothing; but it couldn't hurt to be sure.

Just how much of their housework did Mrs. Hudson do?

It might have been a strange line of inquiry, but Jim was tempted to follow it after he had seen yet another memory of her dusting the flat while Sherlock was experimenting in the kitchen. She must be really thankful for Sherlock having her husband executed.

There was a reason she had been one of the three people he had threatened when Sherlock confronted him. She was always there in the background, shopping for them or cleaning the flat or cooking or being there for John when he needed a break and a quiet cup of tea in her kitchen, and generally being unfazed by Sherlock's behaviour. No matter how he treated her, she would always be back half an hour later with a smile on her face and a tray in her hands.

He wondered if she herself realized her important role in Sherlock's mind. She was certainly given more room than anyone except for John, Lestrade and Mycroft. Perhaps it had something to do with her knowing him for years and still talking to him. It was easy to create new memories if the person one created them with was ready to see one again.

And yet her importance wasn't as noticeable as those of the others. She had a more subtle influence, a gentle way of moving without being observed – proving once more that Sherlock, the man who classified 240 types of tobacco, trusted her – and most of the time, she was not doing anything at all, just bustling about to keep her boys company.

And that was what gave him the idea.

She was not the focus of many of the memories that were linked to here. There were certain exceptions – he did have a new admiration for Sherlock's fighting skills after watching him almost kill an American for her – but mostly she was just – there. And that meant that, if he was careful, Sherlock wouldn't notice if he manipulated the memories. Not much. Just a little, just Mrs. Hudson in the background. And of course not all memories. If they changed too suddenly, if Sherlock changed to suddenly, people might notice, and he had always preferred the shadows.

If he could only unravel the picture, he thought as he watched Mrs. Hudson dust the skull in a recent memory, while Sherlock was studying something rather unpleasant through his microscope. If he could...

He had never really tried to interact with the memories before, in case Sherlock noticed his presence, but that was a mute point now, and he approached Mrs. Hudson. It soon became clear that she neither saw nor heard him; she was only a memory, not a full-fletched personality like him. Even the Sherlock in the memory paid him no attention.

But he was determined. He would find out how to change memories. He had already taken control over Sherlock's body; how difficult could changing memories be? He simply had to find access. And he had already found that to Sherlock's subconscious; there must be a connection down there.

And he already knew what he was going to do the moment he found out how to manipulate memories.

Sherlock was always so nice to Mrs. Hudson. It was boring.

He would make him resent the good landlady. It would be entertaining to watch.


	14. Chapter 14

Greg wished he could have dismissed John's panic. He had seen Sherlock insulting and being condescending towards people long before the doctor had known him; had watched him turn from a cocaine-addicted genius whom he could never imagine truly liking into one of his best friends who admittedly still could not abide those he considered "idiots".

He had even seen him scream at Mrs. Hudson on the very evening of John's and Sherlock's first case together.

But screaming and calmly – according to John, almost cruelly – dismissing her – it didn't sound like Sherlock. If it had been anyone else, if it had been Anderson or Donovan or perhaps Kitty Riley, he could have understood; even if it had been him or John. He would have been astonished, but he wouldn't have been worried.

But Mrs. Hudson. The woman who had been like a mother to him ever since Sherlock had ensured that her husband was executed. It was still strange to think about the nice old lady as the wife of a baron of a drug cartel, but Frank Hudson, according to his research one night when curiosity had got the best of him, had certainly been one of the most powerful drug lords in the state. By the time Sherlock had arrived, Mrs. Hudson had become disillusioned with her marriage and the life she had chosen and had been relieved to be freed of her brute of a husband, and ever since then, she had seen Sherlock as a son. She had also immediately adopted John and during the last few years, Greg had noticed that she even pressed him to stay and eat or at the very least have a cup of tea and seemed to include him when she said "boys" and he was in the room as well. It was a comforting feeling.

That was just it. Mrs. Hudson was comforting. Not someone who should be treated dismissively. And Sherlock knew it.

So why would he talk to her like that? Especially when he had no case and wasn't in the least stress? According to John, he had been reading. And about a case that had taken place over a hundred years ago at that. Therefore he should have been his usual, if a little tiring, self.

"Has he been..." he trailed off as he remembered his uneasiness after Sherlock had left. He couldn't explain it then and he couldn't explain it now.

It seemed like John didn't understand his own worry either. After all, it was such a little thing. Not even worth mentioning.

So what was going on?

"Did he say anything?"

John shook his head.

"No. He didn't apologize". They smiled briefly at one another, knowing that expecting Sherlock to apologize was an idle way of passing the time. John grew serious again and continued.

"But the way he – he had this look on his face – I've never seen him look like that".

That was worrying indeed. John lived with Sherlock and he knew every expression on his face. After the consulting detective had returned, he had been hovering near him to a point where even Sherlock had noticed that he was worried he would disappear again and had made sure that he stayed in John's line of sight until he felt comfortable watching him leave. John knew Sherlock – maybe even better than his brother did, because from the first, John had been interested in the heart of the man he had met and not just the mind.

Mycroft. Greg suddenly realized that until now he had not taken him into account.

"Has Mycroft visited you lately?"

It didn't take much to figure out that the British Government had been busy lately – another economy crisis plus the revelation that the popular Minister of Inner Affairs had been cheating on his wife with his secretary for months, which of course had been trodden out in the press gave him more than enough to do – but he couldn't imagine that he wouldn't notice that something was wrong with his brother. He had surveillance on him – true, a little less since John had come to live at Baker Street, but still. And even if Mycroft had been too busy to notice, there were others. Several agents had been on Sherlock's trail regularly for weeks now, and Anthea had stared at enough screens to notice when he was behaving oddly.

"No" John replied.

"That's a sign he doesn't think anything's amiss, surely?"

"Until now, I didn't think anything was wrong with him" John answered.

"But what about – "

"I know, I know. I shouldn't have been so easily pacified. I should have kept a close watch on him". John looked down in his pint. Greg knew what this was all about, knew that John still blamed himself that Sherlock had had to go through two years of fighting Moriarty's web alone. He would have dropped everything and followed him if he'd let him, and he still thought he should have realized what he was about to do, should have known he wasn't dead and come looking for him. It was obviously an idiotic train of thought, as Sherlock would have said, but that didn't stop John from entertaining it.

Greg was a policeman and he had never thought that he should have known. If Sherlock wanted to make people believe something, he did. There was no way they could have realized that he had only faked his death. And thank God that he had. John had been slowly falling apart.

It was no wonder that he was so worried.

"John, we don't even know that there's something seriously wrong with him". John began to protest, but he held up a hand to stop him.

"We have to be rational. What would Sherlock say if we weren't?" That brought him a weak smile, at least. "He would tell us if something was going on. If he was concerned about his own behaviour". John didn't look so sure, but Greg continued. "If this was a bad as you thought, it would interfere in Sherlock's work. He wouldn't allow it. He would tell us before it got to a point where he wouldn't be able to function".

True as this was, it didn't reassure either him or John, although they both pretended that it did. They had to be logical, wait, collect more evidence or Sherlock would never take them seriously once they felt they needed to speak to him about it.

"I guess you are right" the doctor sighed, "but if this happens again, I will have to speak with him about it".

Greg nodded. It was good enough for the time being.

As far as he could tell, nothing had changed in his mind palace – apart from the changes Moriarty's presence had already brought, of course. It was still full of shadows, and some corridors seemed to be longer or shorter than he remembered. He had been looking for something obvious for a while now; he wouldn't just have snapped at Mrs. Hudson. Whatever had made him act like that must have had a huge impact on his mind palace.

He had run through his memory rooms, trying to see if anything caught his eye. But aside from a brief feeling of repulsion as he relived the moment Mrs. Hudson dropped his skull last week, nothing unusual had taken place, and it wasn't strange that he should feel this way. He liked his skull – she should know that since he'd kept it on the fireplace for years – and her muttering had reminded him how often she had tried to get rid of it. He had been annoyed, and he'd had a right to be.

But even then, he hadn't treated her like he had today. He would have apologized, but she would demand an explanation – then again, not exactly. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't ask. But she would look at him with bright eyes, like she had done after he returned and he found himself telling her the whole story without her having said a word. And if he should tell her about Moriarty inside his head...

He bit his lip as he walked through another corridor that used to be light and comforting. He hated the shadows, but he had given up trying to shove them back. They always returned, almost clinging to him as he made his way through the palace he had built that had become so strange without him noticing until it was too late.

He couldn't think like that. He couldn't think it was too late. He had already lost if he allowed himself to think like that. And if Moriarty took over his body... he was clever. It could be months or years until someone noticed he wasn't Sherlock. Until he committed a crime, until he...

An image of John's bloody body flashed through his mind and he swallowed.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. He wasn't surprised.

Moriarty smiled at him.

"Hello, Sherlock. How did you think I did, solving your case?"


	15. Chapter 15

It was a pleasant surprise to stumble upon Sherlock. He hadn't known he was in the palace. He must have gone to investigate his behaviour. It was goo he was here; Jim was starting to feel bored.

He grinned brightly and asked him how he'd done. It might have been a boring case, but at least he would like to know how Sherlock felt about him fooling everyone. It was a pity he'd been unconscious; he'd been such a good actor.

Sherlock didn't answer, which he considered unfair. If he didn't answer, how were they supposed to hold a conversation?

The consulting detective didn't even look at him, electing to ignore him. That was just childish.

"Sherlock" he whined. "We share the same mind, we might as well get on". It was a completely sound observation – and it was Sherlock's fault he was here to begin with, really – and at least it caused Sherlock to look at him.

"It's not your mind" he spat, and Jim shrugged.

"It depends how you look at it. And don't forget that I have already made a few changes..." he trailed off as Sherlock stepped closer. He looked at his hands, but he wasn't carrying a weapon. Could he even have weapons? Would they work? And could he even be killed? It was unlikely. Ideas stayed in one's mind, continuing to fester; it was the same with memories and recreations of one's personalities. Sherlock had let him in once. He had already tried to delete him and it hadn't worked.

And then, of course, there was the other possibility he hadn't considered much up until this point.

He might not be James Moriarty at all.

He certainly felt like himself, but the real Jim Moriarty had shot himself on a rooftop. He was what Sherlock considered the consulting criminal to have been – possibly madder, more dangerous and clever than he had ever been – and he might not even be that. He might not be a mirage, but an aspect of Sherlock's personality. Sherlock was human. And one couldn't be human and destroy a web by killing and torturing when it was necessary and he couldn't trust the police without beginning to loathe oneself. And he might already have hated himself because of what he did to John and his other friends when he faked his death. So Jim could be a part of him that had grown until it took on a life of its own. Sherlock might simply be mad.

An interesting question to ponder when he had nothing else to do, but in the end not important. He was here and he was out to have fun, so why care whether he was just a part of Sherlock who felt he should be destroyed or if he was really a mirage of the consulting criminal? He felt comfortable being Jim Moriarty, so that was what he was. He could see doubt in Sherlock's eyes and smiled. Apparently Sherlock was concerned for his sanity. He should be. He was the one with the madman in his mind. Whether it was himself or not.

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"If I told you it wouldn't be a game, would it? But I have to say, poor Mrs. Hudson. She looked rather upset when you were so cold with her..."

He was pressed against a wall, Sherlock's arm against his neck. He was having trouble breathing, which he found hilarious. He shouldn't feel the need to breathe at all. Sherlock must have been very motivated to make him as real as possible when he created him. Or didn't create him. Maybe he just thought he created him...

This was going nowhere, but he was just waiting and entertaining himself while Sherlock calmed down.

"Feeling better?" he pressed out.

"You are insane" Sherlock stated, bringing to mind another scene where he had used exactly the same words. Jim hoped he wouldn't start repeating himself. He was looking at him for distraction, not for more of the same.

"You are one to talk" he admonished him. "I thought you were so adamant about this being all yours. So who put me here?"

Sherlock let go as if the fight had gone out of him and he took a deep breath.

"What did you do?" Sherlock repeated himself again and he sighed warily.

"I told you. What would be the point of you knowing everything I could do? You used to enjoy our games".

Sherlock didn't answer. He looked... almost ashamed. He was not the consulting detective Jim had first met. When Sherlock had begun to inconvenience him, he had been delighted. For once someone who could be a worthy opponent. True, in the end Sherlock had turned out to be ordinary, but he hadn't known until much later, until he realized that Sherlock's valued his friends' safety more than the cases he provided him with. He should have been delighted in the challenge of Rich Brook, but he had fallen for his trap because he wanted everything to be clever and everything to have a happy ending where he returned to Baker Street and lived happily ever after with his pet, and it had been one more factor for him to go through with his decision to commit suicide. If he didn't even have a partner-in-game anymore, what was the point? He'd really hoped his absence would have made an impact. Crime in London couldn't be that interesting anymore after he had left. In fact, he had just seen that it wasn't. So why had Sherlock been content until he came along? It would never make sense to him.

"We can hardly call it playing a game if you don't wait when it is my turn" Sherlock eventually said. At least he was arguing now. Jim counted it as progress.

"But you don't do anything".

"How can you know? Yes, you are here. But my mind palace is vast".

"I've noticed. You should really build some more connections..."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to defend his construction, but thought better of it. Jim, while he admitted that it looked nice, didn't really admire the plan of the mind palace. It was both too little and too impractical for his taste. First of all, it should look much grander – he would have thought Sherlock had more style – and second of all, the connections were really few and far between. Not at all what he would have done.

But he had to work with what he had, and what he had was not the worst. It would have been dreadful to wake up in a mind like John Watson's. He was sure there was nothing there but chaos, a devotion to Sherlock that bordered on obsession, and the ability to make at least fifty cups of tea in one day. He might not even have been able to bundle enough of John Watson to trap him. And the doctor would just have assumed he was mad and have himself committed. No, he was glad he was here.

"You have to wait for my turn" Sherlock said slowly. It was adorable that he was trying to talk sense into him.

He thought it best if he agreed. At least for the time being. Sherlock might do something mildly entertaining after all.

"Okay" he whined. "But you better do something soon. You know how dull it can be to just – "

He never got to complete his sentence because Sherlock decided to attack him. He was a little disappointed. Why would he attack him now?

At the very least, Sherlock suddenly had a gun in his hand. He must have made a connection to one of the rooms about weaponry after all – Jim hadn't found it yet but had entertained himself one afternoon with looking at the different swords, guns, poisons and more Sherlock had collected over the years.

The bullet passed through him, to neither of their surprise. He had a moment to wonder what would become of the bullet – could it cause damage? Before Sherlock jumped right at him and they were rolling around on the floor.

He recognized some of the moves – Sherlock was using baritsu, which he had always considered overrated, but if the consulting detective found it useful, who was he to judge – and quickly tried to keep him under control while looking around for the gun. Sherlock had thrown it away.

After all, it was his turn again now.

He managed to roll over and grab it. Sherlock didn't seem concerned. He stood up slowly.

"It doesn't do anything here. I think I have established that".

"I know" he said simply, "But I am not going to shoot you".

"Then what?" Sherlock inquired.

"I think" he began slowly, "It's time to step up the game".

With three quick steps, he was in front of Sherlock and brought the gun down on his skull. He figured since he could touch it, it would have more of an effect.

He was right. Sherlock collapsed.

He prepared himself to drag him into his old cell.

If Sherlock didn't want to play, he had to be Sherlock for longer. Easy.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock woke up in Moriarty's cell. He knew immediately where he was; he had built it so carefully, made sure that he would never get out –

Really, it didn't make sense in hindsight, since he would never have believed his escape possible. But it made everything more difficult now.

He had to get out. Moriarty had knocked him unconscious, which meant he had control over his body; and when he had that –

John. Mrs. Hudson. At least the doctor was meeting Greg, but their landlady –

Sherlock looked around frantically. At least Moriarty hadn't out him in a straight jacket, like he had done to the consulting criminal. Maybe he considered it unfair. Maybe he wanted him to break out. Maybe he had already devised a way that led to another obstacle once Sherlock managed to escape the room.

All in all, there were too many variables to even limit the number of theories he came up with, and he concentrated on getting out. He had to drag Moriarty back into the mind palace quickly and attempt to destroy him, once and for all. The bullet had had no effect but, if Moriarty could knock him out and they could fight, there must be something that could harm him.

But first of all, he had to break out. Moriarty had done it –

And apparently changed the room a little. He was sure he had left a handle on the door, even if it had been locked. He had been so irresponsible. Why had he ever allowed him to get loose? Why had he ever locked him away as a whole person to begin with?

Again the fear that he was insane gripped him, but he shook it off. He would worry later; he would draw consequences later, when his friends were safe. He didn't know how much time had passed. He could have been locked up for days before awakening; he had never paid attention to how time passed in his mind palace, which had led to John shaking him more than once, demanding that he eat dinner because he had spent the whole day there.

He should have known how to measure time. It was another mistake that could cost him dearly. He wondered if Moriarty knew, but perhaps not. He might have enjoyed the uncertainty.

The room was circular, the walls white and soft, the door didn't have a handle.

But it still had a key hole.

Most likely Moriarty wanted him to have a chance, he reflected, to play. At least he hopes so; if he still wanted a distraction, he would allow Sherlock to try and be one. Which meant he had not yet cut the room off of every connection completely.

Or he just wanted to make him think that. But he couldn't afford the time to analyze every possibility. He had to act and run into the battle blindly – Mycroft would have been appalled, he reflected with wry smile as he stopped to look at the key hole.

There was nothing to see behind it, but his mind palace had grown so dark that this wasn't surprising. If he could find something, anything...

The walls. In every wall, there had to be something that held it up. He hadn't constructed them especially, had allowed his subconscious to build parts and being content with Moriarty being shoved in a cell, and he was grateful for it. Otherwise he might have made sure that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could be done with them and he would have been lost.

He started clawing at the walls. It hurt; soon his fingernails were broken, the tips of his fingers bleeding, making his palms slip as he tried to get through the material, find a nail or at least a piece of metal...

He occasionally stopped to wipe his hands on his trousers, wondering when he had become so corporeal. He had never felt hunger or pain in his mind palace; he had always been a simple projection of the body that was in the outside world, reclining on the sofa or standing in the lab at St. Bart's. Moriarty had managed to throw him in the cell and he felt everything.

Why? he wasn't flesh and blood; neither was the consulting criminal; and yet they had wrestled and Moriarty had knocked him unconscious. This was far more direct than the approach he had taken before, when he had simply installed fear in his mind, sent him nightmares, changed his palace. But why would he –

Because the fear had led Sherlock's mind to strike back. Unconsciously, it had bundled its remaining strength, which meant that he was far more real than the mirage that normally moved through the corridors in search of information. And Moriarty must have grown stronger and more physical because he had gained strength while Sherlock had weakened.

But if Moriarty had become corporeal – or more corporeal – than it must be possible to harm him. The bullet might have been simply a poor imitation; Sherlock had memorized information on many weapons, but since he had never expected to use them in his mind palace, he had been content with the rare details without envisioning them properly. The bullet hadn't existed on the same level as he and Moriarty; but the gun, whose make and model he had carefully recreated so he could recognize it immediately, had been strong enough to incapacitate him.

He had to visualize a weapon, store it in his mind palace, use it against Moriarty. He had to get to the room he had protected; to the room where he kept his memories of first meetings and important turning points in his life; but first of all –

He was still bleeding and it was getting difficult to keep working through the pain, but he impatiently bit down on his lower lip and tore at the wall with greater determination. He had to get out. He had to.

A nail. Just a small steel nail, but a nail. Sherlock needed some time to extract him from the wall, his hands slippers no matter how often he wiped them, his broken and bloody fingertips screaming in agony, but he finally held it in his hands and went to work on the door.

He had a plan. Sherlock didn't want to play like he had imagined he did, so he would have to force him. No murder; not yet. But something more subtle, something Sherlock would find interesting.

He was going to break into his big brother's office. That had to get his attention. Mycroft would be sure to give Sherlock the case, since finding a burglar who potentially held secrets that would risk the nation's safety involved legwork, and Sherlock would be looking for himself, unable to tell anyone.

There was another reason to make it a case about Mycroft, rather than a simple murder. Jim would enjoy interacting with the British Government. He hadn't seen the Ice Man since he had set him free. He wondered if Mycroft had ever regretted his decision, but he didn't seem like someone who would regret anything. He made his decision based on what he considered best for the country.

Jim pondered the question when this had happened. When he had chosen this path. The brother he had seen in Sherlock's childhood memories had always been open and affectionate towards Sherlock; they had been close, and he was ready to believe that if he had had such a family as the consulting detective, he might have ended up normal and boring after all. It wasn't important, of course, but when had Mycroft decided to sacrifice a fulfilling emotional life for his career? And yet he still had surveillance on his younger brother. He still cared. He must have felt something when Sherlock went underground and spent two years alone. Even if he didn't visit him unless he had to force him to take a case, even if they didn't really speak to one another, he was used to seeing him on screens, was used to following his movements. It must have been difficult to know him in danger. At least it would have been for anyone else. The Ice Man was a mystery, even to Jim.

And that was part of the fun. He wanted to experience Sherlock's and Mycroft's interactions. He wanted to see just how much Sherlock meant to him, how far he would be willing to go to save his brother. He had certainly gone along with Sherlock's scheme of faking his death.

Would he try to save him or do everything necessary to stop Jim once and for all? Would he be able to pull the trigger himself? Jim was almost ready to die again to know. Not yet, though. Now was the time to act, to set things in motion; now was the time to force Sherlock's hand; now was the time to have fun.

Now was the time for a break-in.


	17. Chapter 17

It was around two am when he left; John must have returned and went to bed while he and Sherlock had been talking and fighting. It must have taken longer than he had realized; sadly, Sherlock had not put any clocks in his mind palace or ever bothered to see how much time passed while he was there. One of the many details the consulting detective never paid attention to because they were too ordinary. He had called him out on his biggest mistake – he wanted everything to be clever, so he tended to avoid the commonplace – and yet he was still committing it over and over again.

It was definitely time to step up the game.

He knew where the security cameras around Baker Street had been located before his death; when he had left to solve the case with John, he hadn't looked for others because he had been concentrating on staying in control as long as possible. With Sherlock safely locked away, he could take his time.

Of course he hadn't locked him away without any hope of escape. It wouldn't be a game if he had. The key hole was still there, and if Sherlock succeeded in finding something to pick the door, he could get out and challenge him. It would take him a while, though, long enough to break into Mycroft's office.

He evaded the cameras he had known about, as well as a few others that had been put up by the jewellery and the bank farther down the road. Apparently Mycroft was content with the amount of security; there were no new cameras put up by the British Government. Either that or he had decided to trust his brother after his return. If so, this would be even more fun than Jim had believed.

He had pondered the idea of breaking into the office when he had still been alive and in possession of his own body, but then there had been nothing there that had interested him, and there still wasn't, but thankfully there was a new dimension to it now. Plus he was curious about Mycroft's security measures. Big Brother would have thought carefully about what to do, and there were arguments both for guarding the true place of power in the UK with all they had at their disposal as for downplaying it. Sherlock, of course, would have chosen the second option, believing himself to be clever enough to convince everyone that there was no reason to break in his office. But this was Mycroft, the man who had decided to distance himself from a happy family life just to run the country, which couldn't be much fun, Jim thought. So there could be surprises there.

He happily made his way to the inconspicuous building Mycroft worked in. He knew that his office was more lavishly furnished because no Holmes would ever be able to completely fight his taste for the grand or dramatic, but until one stood within, one would never have guessed the power he held. And even then, most people failed to realize the importance of someone occupying a minor position in the British Government having a luxurious and big office. People were idiots.

The night watchman was there, and he would recognize Jim as the younger brother of Mr. Holmes; but he had no intention of being recognized. He wanted to be given the case after all, and he couldn't work on it if it was clear he had been the culprit.

The window it was, then.

Sherlock was fit, even more so after the two years he had spent more or less running around the world; it was surprisingly easy to reach the third floor, where Mycroft's office lay. He remembered being surprised when he had first learned that Mycroft hadn't taken the highest room in the building as his abode; but the elder Holmes probably wanted to show once more how humble his position was. Jim rolled his eyes as he opened the window and saw the mahogany table. In that case, he should have bought less conspicuous furniture.

He didn't spend long in the office; after he had pressed against the wall until he had been able to reach the hidden camera on the top of a book shelf and disable it, he moved a few files – unimportant ones, since Mycroft wouldn't have allowed them to lie on his desk over night otherwise – from right to left, put his chair on the other side of the desk and laid a pen exactly in the middle of the tabletop. Then he heard the watchman – probably, and alarm had been triggered somewhere – and left the way he had come.

Mycroft wouldn't know who had done it, and he would be puzzled why the perpetrator had been content with moving around and disturbing his order. He would have to ask Sherlock for help, Jim reflected gleefully on the way home.

He didn't know yet how long he would be able to play. Sherlock might already have broken out; he wouldn't know until he looked into the mind palace, and he'd wait until he got home. It was his home now as well; he might pull down the periodic table from the wall. He had never liked chemistry much. It was too predictable how certain substances would behave themselves under certain circumstances. He had always preferred humans. They could surprise one, at least.

All was silent as he made his way to the flat. John was still asleep, hadn't noticed his absence, and he would never know. Tomorrow he would apologize to Mrs. Hudson to remove all suspicion from himself and wait for Mycroft. He suspected that he would be sent for sooner rather than later.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Time to see what Sherlock was up to.

Much as he wanted to repossess his body, he decided against it for the time being. He was aware of the risk he was taking, but if gained control now, it left Moriarty roaming free, ready to strike at every moment. He had to get to his safe room, secure it against any intrusion; he had to think of a weapon he had studied well enough that it would work against him, and then, when Moriarty returned to gloat, because he was sure to, he had to attack him, destroy him once and for all. Once John and the others were safe, he could reveal what had happened. Although he doubted that anyone would believe him.

So he closed the door of the cell, quickly locking it again with the nail. His hands were burning, but he doubted he could get an infection; he might feel pain, but he was still only a projection of his consciousness. He didn't pay attention to the blood still oozing from his torn fingertips, other than wiping his hands again so no trail of drops would be left behind.

The cell being locked would hopefully gain him a few extra moments when Moriarty returned; in the mean time, he had to reach his safe room.

He used every connection he had made, every shortcut he remembered, every room he had ever built simply so it would be easier to get to another, and finally he was standing in front of the one that held his memories about the first time he had met John, the first case he had solved with Greg, the first time Mycroft had read Treasure Island to him.

It was still as he had left it when he'd last entered it months ago, still as light and big as it was supposed to be; Moriarty hadn't found it. Sherlock had made the door look especially boring and small out of instinct; he couldn't say what instinct, but he was glad he had even then felt the need to make it even more secure.

He closed the door behind him with a feeling of freedom he hadn't experienced since Moriarty had first broken out.

He happily went to the cell, almost jumping a little, whistling to himself. Sherlock would enjoy hearing about what he had done. After all, he hadn't killed anyone, he had barely done anything illegal, and now they just had to wait how Big Brother reacted.

From a distance, he could see that the cell door was closed, and he was disappointed that apparently Sherlock hadn't attempted to escape. Then he saw the small read smear under the key hole. Blood.

He opened the cell and found it empty. One part of the wall was torn down, dirty with blood, and it wasn't until he saw the steel nails under the covering that he realized how Sherlock had taken flight.

And yet he hadn't tried to regain control. Interesting.

It was a new move. And entirely unexpected one.

Sherlock had finally started to play.

Jim turned around and left the cell. It was only after four am; he had a few hours to look for Sherlock before he was summoned to help the Ice Man.

Once more whistling, he skipped down the corridor.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was building more and more security measures. He hoped that the room would stay hidden from Moriarty for a while longer; he had overlooked it so far; but should he see it, it had to be absolutely impenetrable. He needed a place he could run to when the consulting criminal approached him and he had not yet found a weapon that worked.

He would have to go through every single means of harming someone he had ever memorized, but he was more than ready to. There had to be something he had catalogued carefully enough to kill Moriarty. Whether he was a part of his personality or not.

He was aware that Moriarty's death could bring serious recuperations; but he would rather end up in a mental hospital for the rest of his life than risk him being alive for one more day.

He desperately hoped that Moriarty had not yet used his body to kill anyone. Or set up another elaborate plot. It would be like him to commit a crime and then revel because Sherlock was asked to solve it.

At least he would know. As soon as he saw the crime scene, he would know. But once he did, there was nothing he could do. If he told the truth, no one would believe him. If he begged to be locked up, people would think he had finally gone insane, proving that he had been a freak all along. He could only win in his own mind, and for that, he had to make his safe haven as safe as possible. Moriarty might be strong, but he hadn't lived with his mind for years. Sherlock knew it better than he ever would.

At the very least he had the advantage of having built the mind palace himself. No matter how many details Moriarty altered, the outline would always be the same until Sherlock was destroyed and the consulting criminal could do as he wished. But he would do what he could to prevent this fate. He would fight and fight until he lost, and if he did he had to have faith in his friends because Moriarty would slip. He couldn't pretend to be him forever. John would notice he didn't drink his tea as quickly as he usually did, Greg would see his lack of enthusiasm at crime scenes, Mycroft would hear a discrepancy in the screeching noises he made with his violin.

He had to hold on to this belief, if only so he wouldn't give up hope. Hope was an important factor in every fight. If he hadn't been hoping to one day return to London, he probably would have despaired in the two years he had been unravelling the web. It had been larger and more intricate than even he had supposed.

He built and built wall upon wall and hoped that he still had some time before Moriarty noticed he was missing.

Jim strolled through the mind palace, walking as slowly as he pleased. If he were to be awoken before he could find Sherlock, so be it. At least it would give the consulting detective time to finally do something exciting instead of despairing and allowing himself to be captured. Maybe he was finally playing right, like he had hoped he would.

Sherlock would have to create a safe place for him to rest and think, he decided. Something like 221B in his own mind. Of course he wouldn't make it look like his flat – too obvious. He was looking for something small, something he had perhaps overlooked before, but he was in no hurry to detect it. If he didn't gave him a chance – what was the point, really? He had after all broken in the Ice Man's office to be entertained, not be bored once again because Sherlock was not yet ready.

Perhaps, he reflected, he should have waited to reveal himself a little longer, until Sherlock had succeeded in navigating through his changed mind palace and learned to move with the fear lingering at the back of his mind. The consulting detective needed time to adjust now and then; he had stayed long enough in his flat to get arrested even after Lestrade had warned him. Then again, he might just have wished to prove that the DI had nothing to do with his escape. Emotions. Jim had never really understood them, but they proved to be entertaining from time to time.

He failed to find anything suspicious during the next few hours, but he didn't mind. When he suddenly heard a knock, he understood that he was being called and quickly took control of the body.

He sat up as John opened the door.

"Mycroft is here" he informed him somewhat tensely, and he understood that yesterday had not been forgotten. While he had desired the effect at the time, he had since turned over a new leaf since Sherlock had been too dull to appreciate his efforts, and he quickly greeted him with something that he hoped looked like hidden shame. Apparently it did because John immediately became friendlier.

He quickly dressed himself and entered the living room, meeting the Ice Man for the first time in years. He looked just as he had then, except for a certain haggard look in his eyes. Interesting. Had this to do with his nocturnal visit to his office, or had it appeared after Sherlock had left? Had he missed the little brother he had distanced himself from years ago?

"Mycroft" he said calmly.

"Your usual distractions will have to wait" Mycroft answered, his eyes sweeping to the microscope in the kitchen with the sample Sherlock had been looking at yesterday morning, "I have a case for you".

"Did you lose another one of your agents?" he inquired, flopping down in Sherlock's chair. "Or did more top-secret information get lost?"

"Neither" Mycroft replied with an annoyed smile. "Someone broke into my office".

He raised an eyebrow and brought his hands up so his fingertips met.

"Has something been taken?"

"No".

"Is there anything visible on – "

"If there was, we wouldn't need your expertise" Mycroft came as close to snapping at his brother as he probably ever had in his life, and Jim suppressed a grin. He had unsettled the Ice Man. He hadn't thought it would be so easy, but he could understand; the office was Mycroft's sanctuary as well as his seat of power.

"So you have no idea who did this?" When Mycroft was silent, he pressed on. "There have to be some foreign agents in the city as we speak".

"There are, but few who know about the position I hold, and none who would dare to attempt a break-in".

"Are you sure?"

Mycroft didn't answer. Jim held out Sherlock's hand and he handed him a file.

Jim quickly read through it.

"As you can see, at 3:34 am an alarm was triggered, but the night watchman didn't find anything amiss and concluded it had been a malfunction".

"You disagree".

"I know how I left my office" he replied indignantly. "Not that I expect you to understand. I know you have always been rather... negligent when it comes to your work space".

The opposite was true, but one had to have had a look in Sherlock's mind to realize that he had never been neglectful when it came to things that could be of use to him, so Jim let the comment slide.

He stood up.

"There's a car outside?"

Mycroft nodded.

Jim turned to John, who had been watching the whole scene, and asked self-consciously, "Are you coming?"

John gave him a small smile and replied, "Of course".

He made a point of courteously greeting Mrs. Hudson as they passed her, and when they entered the limousine, he knew he had been forgiven.

Sherlock was reasonably sure that his stronghold was safe. He had severed all connections to it; there was no way in but through the door and he had laid several traps to ensure that only he could get in. He still hoped that Moriarty wouldn't succeed in fighting it. He had to suspect that something like this room existed – if only because he couldn't find Sherlock – and he would come looking for it, but for now –

For now. He couldn't wait anymore, he couldn't risk Moriarty behaving anymore.

He had to get out and see. Spy. Find out what the consulting criminal was up to. He didn't know how long he had been here, what time of day it was, whether hours or weeks had passed. He had to go and see through his own eyes, even if he wasn't in control of them. Moriarty had been able to do it when he hadn't been aware that he was alive yet; Sherlock should be as well. He knew his mind, even in its altered state. It must be possible to sneak in.

He had to know what was going on.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock left his room and slowly crept along the corridor leading to it. One disadvantage of having severed all connections was that he would always have to leave through the same door, and that Moriarty could be hiding nearby; but it was safe than having them and risking him suddenly standing in his stronghold. If Moriarty was indeed in control of his body at the moment, there was of course no danger of running into him, but Sherlock still stayed in the shadows, making his way towards natural sciences, especially his collected information about eyes. Moriarty had found a connection, enabling him to see.

He would have looked for it and this was the first place to go. Naturally, he might have come across it by accident; Sherlock couldn't help some connections forming, subconsciously, without his permission; but it was unlikely that Moriarty had simply got lucky. It was far more probable that he had found a connection because he had been searching for it. So Sherlock would do the same. The first time, he had acted on pure instinct, panicking because Moriarty had control over his body. This time, he went to look.

He looked around the room. If Moriarty had been here, he hadn't changed anything, he registered with disappointment. Apparently it hadn't been important enough to fill it with fear and shadows.

He concentrated on finding the connection. Moriarty might have obscured or destroyed it, but that would have given him an unfair advantage in the game that at this stage he wouldn't have cherished; at least Sherlock was reasonably sure that the consulting criminal he remembered would have thought so. Of course, if this wasn't Moriarty at all but a part of his –

He concentrated on finding the connection. Nothing else was important. If he found the connection, he might use it to regain control. And at the very least he would know what was going on.

He pushed away all thoughts of looking out of his own eyes only to see John's body. Mrs. Hudson's remains. Greg's corpse. What he would see was not of importance right now; he would focus on seeing anything before he wondered what he would see.

There. He could feel it. A connection. It didn't feel like one he had created, so it had been made subconsciously, as he had supposed; and it felt wrong.

Moriarty had definitely been here. He had been here, had touched and used the connection, and as a result, it felt like an alien substance in Sherlock's mind, dirty and cold.

He didn't care. He simply plunged into it.

And then he found himself in the position Moriarty had been countless times before, looking out of his own eyes as a spectator, unable to move them accordingly. He felt dizzy for a moment; the strange feeling of watching a film rather than what was happening to his body almost too much; but he took a few calming breaths – would have taken, if he had had real lungs – and observed.

Mycroft's office. This was definitely Mycroft's office. He hadn't been there often, but enough times over the years to identify it at first glance. He assumed that Moriarty had somehow inveigled himself there, having invented a reason to call on Mycroft, until he realized that he let his gaze sweep over the room in the way he did when he was deducing something, collecting evidence. He couldn't see anyone else. Had Moriarty killed Mycroft?

The pain he felt at the suspicion was not entirely unexpected, but shocking in its intensity. He hadn't seen his brother in a few weeks because Mycroft was busy and no case had proven to be worthy his attention; he wondered if Mycroft would have noticed something was amiss.

Data. He was theorizing without data again. Why would Moriarty pretend to be deducing if he had committed murder and no one was around?

"As you can see, the perpetrator entered through the window".

He had never believed he would be relieved at the sound of his brother's voice.

Moriarty looked at the window, where Mycroft was standing, and Sherlock fought the urge to scream. It wouldn't do any good; if anything, it would alert Moriarty and he would chase him down. So he watched.

"And nothing was stolen?"

John. He was standing behind him, judging from where his voice came from, and Sherlock noticed that he sounded relaxed, playful almost. So Moriarty had made him forget about his suspicions the night before, because John must have been worried since he had called Greg and went out. Maybe he had already apologized to Mrs. Hudson and no one remembered the incident.

He forced himself to remain calm. He couldn't risk having too strong feelings running through his mind. At this point, he couldn't say what Moriarty was aware of. Maybe he was only playing with him at this very moment, already knowing that he had broken out.

No wonder Sherlock had been nervous and the fear he had planted in his mind palace had grown so quickly, Jim decided. It was a strange feeling, as if someone was standing behind him close enough to feel his breath on his neck. He knew that John stood behind him, but at a distance of several feet. This could only mean one thing: Sherlock was watching. He didn't smile, but he happily doubled his efforts to act like him. He wanted to impress Sherlock.

He went to the window and looked out, studying the wall he had climbed, as well as the windowsill.

"I would have expected greater security measures" he commented. "You had put up more cameras around our flat".

John sniggered and Mycroft shot him a disapproving look before replying, "I decided against raising suspicion. Plus, all sensitive material is locked in a safe under the building or at my house".

Which was so secure that not even he could break in without being noticed. He doubted Sherlock could have.

"Whoever did this must have been disappointed, then" he answered, "I would put another surveillance team in front of your house. Just in case they decided to attempt another break-in".

"I have already ordered a team" Mycroft said indignantly, and Moriarty smirked as Mycroft would have done.

"You are sure no one has been – watching the office in the last few weeks? Memorizing the plan of the building, finding out about the one camera you put up?"

He paused before the word "watching" to make Sherlock understand that he knew. There was no harm in having a little fun with the consulting detective while he was solving his own case.

Of course he knew. It would have been a miracle if he hadn't. He had done this for a long time, possible before Sherlock ever noticed that his mind palace was not as it should have been. And if he felt what Sherlock had felt – the suspicion that he was being watched by someone who was standing just in the corner of his eye – it wouldn't take long for him to figure out why.

Probably Moriarty intended to scare him by letting him know, but the opposite was true. Sherlock felt completely calm. At least they knew where the other one stood.

So Moriarty had broken into Mycroft's office, no doubt leaving enough signs that someone had been there without taking anything since there was nothing of interest kept there over night. Anyone who had a brain would be capable of deducing this within seconds. Mycroft was far too careful to leave any evidence of his position at an easily accessible place, and he would always choose to have his office look inconspicuous for the exact same reason, even if it was furnished somewhat luxuriously. Not even everyone in the building knew that Mycroft was more important than them, believing his usual explanation of his "minor position".

People were idiots.

Moriarty wasn't. He had only done this so he could be called in and revel at Mycroft not knowing who he was, and enjoy Sherlock's discomfort. He would probably seek him out just to gloat later, when he could reasonably claim that he needed to visit his mind palace or to rest, and Sherlock would be ready for him then. He would find a weapon and do what was necessary.

Why didn't Mycroft notice? He thought in a sudden fit of despair as his brother continued to discuss the break-in with Moriarty. He had watched him grow, he had put surveillance on him, Sherlock had never really been able to lie to him. So why didn't he notice?

Because, like Sherlock, he wouldn't think it possible. He wouldn't take into account that it could be Moriarty he was talking to.

He wished he could have balled his hands into fists, his real hands. When he did it with those he had, they stung and reminded him of the time it had taken him to break out of the cell.

He couldn't waste anymore. He needed to find a weapon now.

He left when Moriarty turned around and talked to John.

He had seen enough. He didn't need to see that as well.


	20. Chapter 20

Moriarty felt it as Sherlock left his eyes. He had made no attempt to draw him back in the mind palace; he must have another plan. He was glad now that he hadn't tried to sever the connection between his eyes and the room; it had been amusing to feel Sherlock at the back of his own head, incapable of doing anything but watch.

He was taking a big risk. Jim might get bored anytime, and he might just use the good doctor as a distraction. Then again, it was far more entertaining to see him treat Jim like his best friend.

His behaviour had obviously soothed John, who had acted visibly relieved the whole time, so that Mycroft had studied him for longer than necessary. And yet he wouldn't believe if he told him. It was one of the advantages of being in an impossible situation. People did not take kindly to impossible things, and Mycroft Holmes wouldn't consider that something he didn't' take for granted occurred.

The Ice Man had behaved exactly as such, ordering his brother around as if he was an agent, if it hadn't been for the decided warmth in his voice. Well, decided for anyone who knew him. Jim had seen quite a lot of Big Brother in Sherlock's memories, enough to assure him that he still cared and that he had deliberately chosen to distance himself; and that he must have missed Sherlock in those two years. He must have been happy to have a case to give him.

Jim smiled and looked out of the window of the limousine.

"Interesting case" John commented.

The doctor seemed not very concerned considering someone had broken into the office of the British Government; he would have expected more patriotism from a former soldier. But maybe he was too caught up in the excitement. Logical that Sherlock's ordinary human turned out to be an adrenaline junkie. Jim supposed that he wouldn't have managed living with him if he hadn't been.

"Nothing got stolen" he murmured in the tone Sherlock used when he was half-speaking to himself and yet expecting his doctor to listen, "This might mean that they didn't know nothing of value was there to steal. But in this case, they would have been careful to leave the office as they had entered it – anyone who knows who Mycroft is must know that he's capable of noticing the slightest changes to his decor. So whoever did it simply wanted to show that he could. What does that tell us?"

"That they are boasting? Showing off? If I can get into the office of the British Government, I can get anywhere else – " John began before he suddenly stopped. Jim turned his head to look at him and found all colour drained from his face.

He knew what he was thinking as soon as he looked into his panic-stricken eyes, and if he could have danced around the interior of the car without attracting suspicion, he would have.

"You don't think it's Moriarty?" John asked, his voice heavy with fear. Not fear of him, of course; he was certain that John would gladly have laid his hands on him if he could; but fear for Sherlock. The consulting detective had only survived because he and his brother had come up with an ingenious plan. The next time, he might not be as lucky.

He could have calmed John down. He could have let him believe that he was dead. But that wouldn't have been fun. To watch him squirming while the person who was scaring him was sitting right in front of him, pretending to be his best friend, was something else.

"I would like to believe that it is impossible" he answered, "but Moriarty might have faked his death just like I did."

John nodded, colour slowly returning to his cheeks as he remembered his training as a soldier and began thinking about strategy. He could once more see why Sherlock had got himself a live-in human. He was adorable. Always looking out for his friend, even if he would never win against the likes of Jim. Unless he shot him, but even if he should guess the truth, as unbelievable as it was, he would never shoot Sherlock. He would never kill his best friend, whose death had almost driven him to his own grave three years ago.

And for him to be in this situation he would have to believe. And he had easily been led to believe that there was nothing about twice now. Jim was safe for as long as he chose.

He resisted the urge to whistle as he pretended to mull the problem over in his head.

Sherlock had run to the weapons room, itching to use some of the connections he had built, but realizing that it could be dangerous. Moriarty had already done things to his mind palace he would never have thought of; he might have changed the connections so that they would send him into his deepest subconscious or back to his cell. He might have locked them off so that Sherlock was stuck. It was what he would have done in the consulting criminal's place. Then again, Moriarty had proven himself to be as unpredictable as ever, although he couldn't say whether it was a true portrait or just Sherlock's picture of him. It didn't matter.

He still took the long way around, moving fast now that he knew that Moriarty was safely employed, if "safely" was the right word to use under the circumstances. Mycroft was consulting him, John was always at his side. He could strike any minute. He had already stricken – only thankfully he had decided on a break-in in which nothing was stolen. Sherlock had no doubt that the stakes would rise in time if he didn't stop him, so stop him he would.

His room of weapons was untouched. Moriarty hadn't cared to protect himself, it seemed. Or it might be another attempt to give him "a fighting chance". Sherlock bit his lip as he walked down long shelves full of the machinery mankind had invented to kill.

He had a very extensive archive on poisons, but since he hardly knew how his body-in-his-mind worked, he decided against using them. His best bet was a good, old-fashioned bullet; but he had to make sure that he had memorized the weapon as well as the ammunition, that it was strong and real and that Moriarty would be killed if he shot him.

Nothing too big. He needed something light, something that could be concealed on his person until he got close enough.

There was one weapon he knew everything, he had held in his hand countless times because he'd borrowed it or put it in his pocket because the owner had forgotten to.

John's weapon, his illegal one that he had shot Jeff Hope with. He had picked it up, cleaned it, stolen it and having it wrestled out of his hands more often than he could count. It was as familiar to him as his microscope or the skull on the fireplace. It was perfect.

It stood at the end of the row, almost hidden behind a rather large machine gun, as if Sherlock's subconscious had once more decided to protect something that was important to him. He should ahve done more research on the mind; its endless possibilities were incredibly fascnitaing. Sadly, they also meant that Moriarty had been able to escape and do as he chose, which was why he was standing here in the first place.

He took the gun in his hands. It weighed just as much as he remembered and was loaded. Relief floaded through his veins. He might win this after all.

Now he only had to wait for Moriarty.

He couldn't wait to see Sherlock's reaction. He had to go to his mind palace as soon as possible. He had to tell him that John had figured out the culprit. His reaction would be immensely entertaining, he was sure. He might try to kill him – would try to kill him – but he had to find a weapon first. Something he treasured, not something he'd only collected information about. And Sherlock Holmes was not a man to care idly about simple things like weapons.

He decided against apologizing to Mrs. Hudson as soon as they arrived, instead opting to lie down on the sofa and go. John respectfully went up to his room.

He went to Sherlock's cell again, trying to figure out where he would have headed to next.

To his surprise, Sherlock awaited him. He had a hand in the pocket of the coat he always seemed to wear, but Jim wasn't overly concerned.

"Hello, Sherlock" he began, "you will never guess what happened. John figured out it was me – he doesn't know how, of course, and he isn't even sure that I'm alive, but – "

At this moment, Sherlock raised his arm and fired.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock really had changed. He had been more than happy to discuss their affairs before it came to fighting on the day Jim had shot himself, and now he was only bent on destruction.

That was all that went through his head as the bullet hit his shoulder. Sherlock had missed. His hand must have been shaking, he thought with glee, as he threw himself to the side and ran towards the next corner.

Another bullet whipped past his head, and he dived into another, darker corridor, remembering one of Sherlock's connections nearby; a second later he was in a room dedicated to 243 types of tobacco ash and left through the door, losing himself in the corridors rather than using easily-to-follow connections.

Sherlock threw the weapon down on the floor, disgusted with himself. Moriarty had made him so afraid and unsure that his hand had been shaking too much to take accurate aim, and he had lost him. There was no point trying to follow him.

Maybe he should lead Moriarty to him. Leave clues, play a game. The consulting criminal wouldn't be able to resist. But he would have to lead him somewhere Sherlock felt safe, where he could be sure Moriarty hadn't manipulated anything.

He would have to lead Moriarty to his safe room.

It was a high gamble. Moriarty, with the abilities he had gain, could probably change anything in this room as he wished, twist his most treasure memories until nothing was left of the man he was. But if there was a chance to destroy him, destroy Moriarty, rid the world of him, it was worth it. On that day on the rooftop, he had been prepared to die in case all his plans failed; had accepted the possibility of his destruction as long as it assured that of his opponent.

Nothing had changed about that. In fact, if it was possible, he was even more ready to die, because he –

Because, although he hadn't admitted it to himself yet, he couldn't stand the thought of losing his mind. And he was losing it, had partly already lost it, to the consulting criminal. Should he defeat him and find that the damage was irreversible –

He would deal with this problem when it arose. First, he had to find the consulting criminal, or rather, make him come to him.

Maybe he didn't really need to hide clues. Maybe he could just plant a trace in his own subconscious. What Moriarty could do, he could do as well. It was his mind.

He remembered well how he had found a door to his subconscious the first time, but this time he went looking for it. It didn't take him long; everything had become so scrambled that the subconscious was no longer as well hidden as it had once been. He would worry about that after Moriarty was either destroyed or back in a cell there was no escape from.

It was dark, but comforting all the same. Moriarty might have used it, but this was the pure essence of what Sherlock was and had been, and would one day become; he couldn't alter everything, couldn't bend it to his every whim. Sherlock thought of the connections he had found that he had never constructed. Maybe it had been his subconscious way of fighting back, recognizing the enemy in his mind palace.

Among the strains he could feel and see, despite the darkness, he quickly formed and inserted another one. It was dizzying how easily it came to him; it seemed once one had access to the subconscious, granted it was one's own, it was simple to work on it. Or perhaps his mind had become so used to being manipulated it hadn't had any defences left.

For once in his life, he decided to be optimistic when choosing a theory because he needed all his strength in the fight that was to come. He worked on making the thread that would lead to the corridor of his safe room as inconspicuous and faint as possible; Moriarty should believe that he hadn't meant to create it, that he was vulnerable.

Even the consulting criminal should see that he had to use this opportunity. Sherlock had already tried to kill him twice. There was no doubt whatsoever that it was his sole intent to get rid of him instead of playing the games Moriarty had imagined.

He was starting to think that he might have made Moriarty a little too... irrational. His fear of becoming like him, his loneliness in the two years he had been gone had let the consulting criminal transform into a monster when he must have been capable of subtlety and cunning, since he had led a criminal empire without anyone noticing for years.

Somehow, he had made Moriarty more dangerous, yet also reduced him in the process. He wanted fun, games and destruction; but the consulting criminal he had met on the rooftop had been more. He had been cruel as well, cold and calculating. This one was too focused on being distracted. He had allowed Sherlock to escape, had even hoped that he would. He was ready to undergo incredibly risks even though he had miraculously come back to life, just so he could run around and watch Sherlock's reaction to it.

Yes, he was unpredictable. He couldn't deny that. He had always thought Moriarty was so, to a far higher degree than Sherlock or Mycroft, and he still believed it. Whether or not he had made him too unpredictable was a mute point; but he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps his wasn't an accurate representation of the consulting criminal at all.

He finished inserting the thread and left, although he wished he could have stayed in the calming environment for longer. There was also a hint of danger here, however; everything subconscious would always carry it with it; and it was probably better to stay away.

He went back to his safe room. Now he simply had to wait.

His fears seemed incredibly exaggerated in the light of day. Sherlock had behaved completely normal, had even looked sorry, and had asked him to accompany him.

John couldn't have been gladder to do so. It was strange that someone had broken into Mycroft's office, not taken anything but left evidence that he had been there; and he still feared that it might be Moriarty. It was certainly the consulting criminal's style, to do something just because he could. He would have left a calling card though, he tried to reason with himself. He would have wanted them to know it was him. When he had broken into the Tower of London, he had sent Sherlock a text. Why should he stay hidden now? If he came back, he would show the world that he had survived in a loud, obnoxious manner.

No matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he didn't succeed, however. The fear that Moriarty would come back and endanger Sherlock's life was always there at the back of his mind; he never could shake it off, no matter how often his best friend had assured him that he was dead. If Sherlock could beat death, so could Moriarty. He had opened up Pentonville Prison, played with the Crown jewels and broken into the Tower of London just so he could lay a trap for Sherlock. Anything was possible.

And then, there was –

John didn't really know how to describe it, but something about Sherlock's reaction had been... off. Which was strange, since he had thought it perfectly reasonable at the time.

Maybe it was that –

Sherlock apparently wasn't overly concerned, and that was enough to set the alarm bells ringing. He remembered how he had pushed him away before feigning his suicide, how he had downplayed the danger he was in, how he had used Moriarty's move to get him away.

Not this time. Until he knew what was going on, who had broken into Mycroft's office, he'd stay at Sherlock's side no matter what happened. He would keep an eye on him until he was certain Moriarty had no hand in this.

Deciding that it would do no harm if he went into the living room because Sherlock was in his mind palace and wouldn't notice him enter, he walked down the stairs and saw him lying on the sofa, in the exact same position he'd left him in. As he had predicted, he didn't open his eyes or say anything, and John moved into the kitchen to make.

He had just put the kettle on when he heard it.

Sherlock was groaning his name; it sounded like he was in pain.

He rushed into the living room and found him sitting on the sofa, doubled over, eyes ablaze.

"Sherlock?" he asked, running to his side.

"John" he pressed out, looking like he didn't want to speak at all, "Moriarty – " he stopped, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths before continuing.

"Kill me".


	22. Chapter 22

After he had evaded Sherlock, he began to think.

It was obvious that Sherlock didn't want to play. And, regrettable as it was, it appeared he never would want to.

Therefore, he had to die. If Sherlock wasn't fun, he had to take control of his body and find someone who was. He might solve Sherlock's cases, he might build a new web, but first of all he had to find the spoilsport and get rid of him.

If there was no other way, he would alter his memories until there was nothing left of him, but good, old-fashioned murder would be enough, as far as he was concerned. Before Sherlock had some other silly idea to try and kill him. He might succeed, and then where were they? He'd be gone, and Sherlock would forever be the dull consulting detective he was. That was decidedly not good, as John would have said.

So, regrettably, he had to get rid of his erstwhile playmate.

He quickly went to the weapon's room. Sherlock was obviously convinced he had found a gun that would work on him. It was only fair that he should find something that worked as well. Remembering the first weapon Sherlock had tried to use on him, he decided against taking any of the guns on the shelves. He would go for something more reliable, and he turned around to look over the knives.

Sherlock had a beautiful knife collection. One in particular caught his eye, Eastern with a sharp blade and a golden handle beset with jewels. He took it in his hand and gently pierced one of his fingers. It bled.

It worked. Happily, he carried the knife out, prepared to use it on Sherlock.

He had to find him first. Sherlock had to have a base, somewhere he felt safe; in the outside world, it was 221B, here it would be more inconspicuous.

Hadn't he wondered why he had never found the memory of his first meeting with John? It would probably be in this room. Sherlock was sentimental like that. All the memories that made him feel safe and protected. Jim had never needed such memories. He'd very much lived in the present. But the rooms and rooms full of memories were enough proof that Sherlock didn't want to forget a single one of them. He would put up a room for those he considered especially worthy of protection. But where?

He could have looked for it, but it would have taken a lot of time, and he didn't know when John would get suspicious because he hadn't moved for hours even though they had a case and Mycroft would undoubtedly demand results soon.

So he would go to Sherlock's subconscious once more. He didn't fear to be sucked in anymore; he was stronger, he could hold himself together much better, he would no longer feel any temptation to give in. He would be able to find a trace of the room. He was confident. No matter how well Sherlock hid it, the subconscious would know, there would be a lead, a thread, maybe thin and deep, deep in the dark, but there would be.

The door was still where he remembered it. He knew the mind palace well at this point, although he would never know it quite as well as Sherlock – at least not until he'd spent several years there, which might happen after all once he had taken over.

He dived in and was immediately greeted by the hostile darkness that had tried to pull him under so many times and attempted it once more only to be simply ignored as he began hunting for the thread he needed.

He didn't know how long it took, but there it was. The tiniest thread, almost imperceptible, but there for those who knew to look for it. Sherlock would be angry. All his work and yet there was the evidence, openly lying about. True, in his subconscious, but still. Maybe the consulting detective would have done a better job if he hadn't been affected by the changes Jim had brought to his mind, maybe at the beginning he could have been more careful, hidden the path so well that no one would have been able to find it, but these times were long gone and Jim had only to follow the path.

He was mildly surprised to find himself in a corridor instead of directly in the room. Sherlock must have protected himself better than he had given him credit for. The room couldn't be far, however, and he soon spotted a small, unimportant-looking door in the shadows.

Sherlock, in a panic, using his older brother's tactic of making something important appear as unimportant as possible. The Ice Man would have been touched, probably.

He tried to open the door, but to no avail. Sherlock must have used every lock he could remember. He couldn't stay there forever. He would have to come out at some point.

Jim settled down to wait.

Sherlock could tell that Moriarty had come. He could feel it, could sense the air quiver with anticipation. Moriarty was waiting outside, like an animal for its prey. He wouldn't have to wait long.

This time, he couldn't miss. He had to shoot Moriarty as soon as he saw him, killing him instantly.

Moriarty might have been on either side of the door, or he could stand in front of it, just waiting. Not that it mattered; he didn't have the time to make a plan, he couldn't ambush him from outside because he had severed all connections.

He opened the door. Nothing.

Moriarty wanted him to leave the room, so he did.

He immediately realized Moriarty was hiding behind the open door, and turned around just in time to catch the consulting criminal as he attacked him, a knife in his hand. He recognized the knife. It had been used in a rather remarkable murder, which meant he had remembered it especially well.

It would be sharp enough to cut his throat.

He managed to evade the fatal cut, even though it slid over his forearm. He barely felt the burn as he tried to aim but was thwarted by Moriarty, who constantly tried to grab him and moved around so fast that it was impossible to shoot. He did what Moriarty had done before and hit him with the weapon, which at least lessened his grip on Sherlock. It did nothing else though; he didn't collapse, despite Sherlock having used all the force he could muster, and he wondered if it was possible to kill Moriarty at all.

If he was a manifestation of a mental illness, if Sherlock had been wrong when he had assumed he was sane, he couldn't be killed. One couldn't kill insanity. He would have to attempt to incapacitate him, lock him away and speak to John. But if he couldn't even knock him out, how was he supposed to bring him back to his cell?

They wrestled as Sherlock desperately tried to come up with a plan. The only one he could think of was impossible, but he had seen enough impossible things in the last few weeks to believe in anything.

He tried to split his consciousness. If he was insane, this might be the worst thing to do; but he had to warn John, he was struggling with either Moriarty or a mental illness that could potentially endanger every one he knew, and the doctor had to know.

There were still the restrictions that Moriarty had put on him, but he thought he could find his way around it. He could tell John he was mad; he could ask him to get help; he could demand –

He dodged the knife once more as he thought, _I can demand that John kill me._

If he had to die, if someone had to kill him, he would prefer it be his best friend. John would deny his request at first, of course, but if he managed to make him understand the situation, he would act because he had to. He had been a soldier, he knew when to follow orders even if he didn't want to.

He could have tried to escape, but Moriarty was quick and strong; therefore he attempted to have a part of him stay here while another accessed his eyes, mouth and ears. He was dizzy and confused, but he pressed on.

He would never knew how he managed it, but even as he threw Moriarty to the ground once again and pulled the trigger, only for the consulting criminal to roll away just in time, he opened his eyes and groaned John's name, the split in his consciousness almost a physical pain.

The doctor ran into the living room, obviously shocked at Sherlock's appearance, and he managed to press out, hitting Moriarty's arm with the gun and managing to get the knife away from his throat, "Moriarty – Kill me".


	23. Chapter 23

John stared at his friend, frozen on the spot. Just when he had thought his concerns had been groundless – but why –

"Sherlock?" he asked, moving towards him.

"Kill me" he repeated. There could be no mistaking his words. John looked at him with horror, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"It's alright" he said soothingly, "just take a few deep breaths". He had calmed down countless patients during his time as a soldier and later working in the hospital, but he was at loss what to do. He couldn't leave Sherlock alone to call help, that much was clear. He was earnestly begging him to kill him. If he left the room, he might harm himself.

He could only hope to keep him as calm as possible while he waited for Mrs. Hudson to arrive. She was sure to drop by eventually.

"You – don't – understand" Sherlock pressed out, and John wondered if his friend was in real pain. He certainly looked like it, but it was impossible to say where it came from. They had to get him to a hospital fast.

"What is it?" he asked, still in the same soothing tone, more because he wanted to pass the time than because he expected a real answer.

"Moriarty" Sherlock continued, and even though his breathing was laboured, there was still something of the condescension he reserved for people who didn't understand him quickly enough in his voice.

"What about him? Is he behind the break-in in Mycroft's office?" John demanded. Maybe he had got a text and the proof that the consulting criminal was alive had been a shock. He had never seen Sherlock like this, but he had supposed Moriarty was dead, like they all had. Maybe it had unsettled him to a degree that he had temporarily lost his usual calmness when confronted with unexpected news.

"Yes" Sherlock answered through gritted teeth, and John would have thought he was right, if the look in his friend's eyes hadn't been so desperate, more desperate than even Moriarty coming back from the dead could explain.

"I'm sure we can – " he began, trying to soothe him, when Sherlock continued, "Not alive".

"What?"

"Moriarty – not alive".

"Are you telling me he broke into Mycroft's office from the grave?" John asked, fearing more and more that Sherlock had slipped into some kind of episode. Had he missed symptoms of mental illness that he had been displaying? But he would have noticed, he had to have noticed. And even if he hadn't, Sherlock would have known something was wrong with his mind. Sherlock would have said something rather than risk becoming mad. His work meant everything to him. He would never have put his career in jeopardy because he couldn't function anymore. And this – this was bad. When John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's shoulder because his friend was shaking his head violently and he didn't want to hurt him, he saw that it was shaking again. His tremor was back, like it had been at Sherlock's grave.

"Not from the grave" Sherlock managed to say, and John was completely lost. He didn't understand what he was trying to say, he doubted even Sherlock himself did; he couldn't imagine what –

And then he saw the change. Later, he wouldn't be able to describe it, even if he looked right into Sherlock's face as it happened; he couldn't explain what had changed exactly either, only that something – maybe Sherlock's eyes, maybe his expression – hardened slightly and he sat up straighter, although his breathing was still laboured and he didn't appear to feel much better.

"I am sorry for scaring you" Sherlock said, but his words didn't match his expression or his demeanour at all. John was too shocked to say anything as he stood up, told him he needed to lie down, and staggered to his room.

John knew the gleam he had seen in his eyes. He knew it so well that it haunted him at night, taunting him with the possibility that everything he had could still be taken from him at the blink of an eye.

It was the gleam he had seen in Moriarty's eyes at the pool.

But that – Sherlock couldn't have meant that. Sherlock couldn't have meant that he had broken into Mycroft's office under the delusion that he was Moriarty –

What was he thinking? He was the mad one, not Sherlock. He could not be honestly thinking that Sherlock had meant Moriarty was in his head. How had he even got the idea?

They needed help. Quickly.

He was already dialling Greg's number before he had noticed he'd pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"We need you here. Now".

The DI asked no questions, just told him he'd be there immediately. John wondered if he should call Mycroft. The British Government could bring in specialists, could find out if it had really been Sherlock who'd committed the break-in; but –

But.

If he did this and the press found out Sherlock's career would be over. Everything he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed two years of his life for, and it would all be gone because John had overreacted when Sherlock had been confused, and understandably so, after finding out that Moriarty was alive. All it took was someone like Kitty Riley. And if he called Mycroft and they brought Sherlock somewhere, not even he could suppress the news. Someone would find out. And the witch hunt would begin anew. No; he would wait for Greg; they would talk, they would observe Sherlock, they would get Mrs. Hudson's opinion; they would find a way around telling anyone. Sherlock couldn't have gone mad suddenly. John should have noticed before. He was simply – yes, he was just confused, like John had thought. And John was confused as well. What was this strange that had suddenly come into his head, about Sherlock acting like Moriarty? It was incredible. Ridiculous. His friend would never do something like that. He just had to wait for Greg and everything would become clear.

He had never heard John like this. He had come close to sound like this once, right after Sherlock's death, but there had only been pain and resignation in his voice, not the panic he had barely able to conceal when he had informed Greg they needed him. He didn't know what was wrong, but he didn't care. He simply left his office, not answering Donovan's questions, and went to his car.

He barely remembered driving there when he arrived at 221B, having been too busy with coming up with various grim scenarios on the way.

Mrs. Hudson took one look at him when she opened the door and decided she would accompany him upstairs. He was glad for it. If John was as concerned as it seemed, they could need the calming influence.

The doctor visibly relaxed when he saw Mrs. Hudson, proving that Greg had done the right thing. John glanced at the door of Sherlock's bedroom and whispered, "I think he's gone mad".

It would have been funny if he hadn't looked so serious. It was Mrs. Hudson who asked, in a steady voice, "What do you mean?"

John gestured towards the door as he drew Mrs. Hudson into a corner, whispering to her. It was clear that he wanted him to form his own opinion, and Greg crossed the room and opened the door.

Sherlock was lying on his bed, his eyes closed.

"Sherlock? John called me".

It was then that he received the greatest shock of his career.

He had been a police officer for almost thirty years. He had interviewed suspects, collected evidence, solved cases, and in the course of his life he had, almost unconsciously, catalogued every mannerism of his friends'.

Whoever had just opened his eyes and was smiling at him to soothe his worries wasn't Sherlock. But it was him – but it wasn't –

"He really shouldn't have. I didn't drink enough in the last few days, and the possibility that Moriarty might have committed a break-in sent me over the edge. I just have to rest for while".

He was talking laboriously, as if he was struggling against some unknown and unseen assailant, and Greg tried to school his face.

This gleam in his eyes – he'd never seen it before. The tone was off too.

This was not Sherlock. He felt it deep in his gut.

"I am glad you are alright" he was quick to assure – whoever this was. "I'll let you rest".

The grin was too eager, too pleased. He left the room with his heart beating wildly.

He looked at John and shook his head. Then, to explain, he hissed, "Who is this?"

"I was hoping – " John whispered back "I thought I was – you are not telling me –"

He broke off. Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and shot Sherlock's door a scared glance.

All Greg could do was inquire, "What do we do now?"


	24. Chapter 24

He must have slipped, his attention more focused on telling John to do what had to be done, or maybe he hadn't struggled enough, but Moriarty had realized what he was doing and immediately tried to take control.

Sherlock could feel himself being pulled back as Moriarty told John that everything was fine. He hoped that his friend had seen something suspicious, was still scared enough to call help, anything. He couldn't do anything about it. He had to fight for his life. He grabbed Moriarty again only to almost have his throat cut, and he quickly ducked and rolled away, trying to aim once more, but he was faster than he'd thought and he could only stop Moriarty's arm with the knife a few inches from his breast.

They jumped up and stood in front of one another, panting. He calculated the distance between them. It was small enough that Moriarty would have time to reach him with the knife before he pressed the trigger; the consulting criminal was an expert when it came to knives. It didn't surprise him. He must have extracted information out of countless people, committed several murders, and someone like Moriarty would prefer the intimacy of the knife to the anonymity of the gun.

"What have you told him?" Sherlock asked calmly.

Moriarty waved the knife around dismissively.

"Just enough to reassure him".

"He's not an idiot" Sherlock said simply, "He won't believe you".

"Do you really think that? I've been in your head for quite some time now. Do you really believe that John Watson is worth your time?"

He was provoking him so that he'd make a mistake. He didn't succeed. Sherlock knew himself, and he knew John. Moriarty couldn't understand the friendship that united them, just like he hadn't understood his memories concerning his family or Greg or Mrs. Hudson. Moriarty was a psychopath, Sherlock might even have made him a worse one than he had ever been when he was alive if that was possible, he couldn't understand friendship or devotion. So he couldn't understand that his friends knew him in a way he had never known himself. And even if John refused to believe there was something wrong with him, there was Greg. Greg wasn't the Yard's best detective for nothing. Greg would feel something was amiss even if he couldn't explain it, and he would act if necessary.

"So much trust in your friends? It was different when we met" Moriarty stated softly.

"We both were" Sherlock replied. Moriarty chuckled.

"I suppose. I still had a pulse" he contemplated, sighing.

"Don't blame me for committing suicide. It was your decision" Sherlock reminded him. He hadn't taken into account that the consulting criminal might feel resentment towards him.

"I don't. It was my decision, and I was happy to carry it out. But as to what's happening now – you bring me back, and you refuse to entertain me. I had to look after myself". He was waiting for sympathy that wouldn't manifest itself. He didn't really need or wish for it either way. He was only what Sherlock had supposed Moriarty was, an annoying, fun-loving madman who would stop at nothing.

He wondered if, at some point in his life, he would have been equally disappointed that nothing entertaining had come up in a situation he had expected distraction. Perhaps. Probably. The man he had been before he met John had long become only a faint memory that bore little resemblance to who he was now.

They were still standing there, looking at one another, when suddenly Moriarty charged towards him again and Sherlock grabbed his arm and twisted it, making him lose the knife; it would all have been over then if Moriarty hadn't managed to knee him in the stomach with enough force that Sherlock's grasp loosened. He didn't let go of the gun, however. If he did that, all hope was lost.

"I suppose this is going to take a while" Moriarty breathed, but despite standing once more where they had been, Sherlock felt hope.

Moriarty was breathing heavily. There was no doubt that he felt, that he was corporeal to some extent. He could harm him. The gun could kill him.

"Really, Sherlock, it would be much easier if you stopped fighting the inevitable. I'm stronger than you".

"How?"

The question surprised him. He studied the consulting detective with something resembling pity.

"I did this" he said, his gesture indicating the mind palace. "You didn't even notice. And when you found out, you ran. And remember the break-in in Mycroft's office? You couldn't prevent it. And you couldn't prevent it either if I decided to hurt John or someone else of your friends... Maybe the DI or the nice pathologist?"

He wouldn't unsettle Sherlock. He had done so at first, but perhaps Sherlock had grown used to the horror or he simply didn't care anymore. What he cared about was that Moriarty was destroyed. His own life meant little to him.

He saw the moment Moriarty recognized this, watched his eyes harden and his body shift in a more defensive stance. Just as Moriarty was here to kill him, he was here to destroy him once and for all, as he should have on that rooftop. As he should have left him in his memories, where he belonged, instead of ripping him out and giving him a life of his own.

It was his fault that Moriarty was here, and he would do anything to right his mistake. He felt certain that, even if John refused, Greg would do what he had asked. Greg had always done as he had asked, had always trusted him. From the very first moment he found a drug addict standing at a crime scene after having solved the case.

"You really don't care anymore" Moriarty said, confused.

"I care about certain things" Sherlock replied evenly, and Moriarty shook his head.

"Do you really think it is healthy to want to murder someone?"

"You seem to be doing fine".

Moriarty actually laughed, and if Sherlock hadn't known that he was ready to pounce every second, he would have thought he was distracted. But he wasn't. There was a gleam in his eye that made clear he was only waiting for Sherlock to rush, to risk it so that he could have his mind palace and body once and for all.

They continued standing there, eyeing one another.

"I'll go in" Greg said eventually, the silence having become too heavy. "I'll go in and see – " he stopped when he realized he didn't know what he would see. Whether he would really see anything. Maybe he never had. Maybe he had been wrong. But one look into John's panicked eyes was enough to assure him that he wasn't. Something – someone – Sherlock –

He knew what the doctor was thinking because he was thinking the same, even if it was crazy, impossible. Moriarty was there. There could be no doubt about that. Sherlock had assured him again and again that he had indeed shot himself on that rooftop. What they were thinking –

What were they even thinking, exactly? There was a vague suspicion in the air about Sherlock not being Sherlock and Moriarty being involved. But it was too ridiculous to contemplate. At least he wished it was. And yet he was contemplating it because he had not spoken to Sherlock. He had spoken to something else. Something cunning, something cruel, something –

Something like –

No. It wasn't possible.

Wasn't it?

He would go in. He had to see. He had to know the truth.

Sherlock had to make a decision. Should he risk an attack? Of course this had to come to an end one way or the other. On the other hand, what if Moriarty won? John was in the house. So was Mrs. Hudson. And if John was worried at all, he was certain to have called Greg. They would all be there when Moriarty emerged, master of his body, all the time of the world at his disposal to get rid of them before he vanished into the night...

He had to act.

He shot at the floor in front of Moriarty, which surprised him enough to jump back, at which point Sherlock ran into him, his hand with the gun coming down on the arm that held the knife, the other in Moriarty's face. The knife fell on the floor, Moriarty dropping to his knees to stay in reach while he twisted Sherlock's arm, the gun trembling, Sherlock trying to press the trigger –

They both had a hand on the gun and the knife now, they must have painted a strange picture if there had been any observers –

At the moment, although he didn't know, Greg opened the door once more and looked upon the thing that had been one of his best friends until that morning, one sound rang out in the mind palace.

A shot.

Then, silence.


	25. Chapter 25

Greg opened his mouth to speak to the figure that was lying completely motionless on the bed when it seized up, writhing to and fro and almost falling down on the floor.

"John!" he called out, rushing towards Sherlock and trying to fixate him.

"What happened?" John asked with the professional demeanour of a doctor, pushing Greg away. The DI saw his hands were shaking.

"I came in and he started having a seizure" he said just as calmly as John, trying to hold unto Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson, call an ambulance!" John ordered when they heard a soft intake of breath behind them.

She left the room and moments later they heard her talking in her mobile phone. They did their best to hold unto Sherlock, John monitoring his breathing and pulse.

They were too busy to be scared, which was a good thing, as Greg would later reflect when the ambulance came and took Sherlock away.

As soon as they watched it drive away, John collapsed and would have fallen down on the asphalt if Greg had to been keeping him up.

"We need to go after him" he said and John straightened immediately, waiting by Greg's car before he could even take his keys out.

Mrs. Hudson had decided to stay behind under the condition that she would be informed hourly how her boy was doing; Greg doubted that she would indeed stay at home if Sherlock's affliction proved to be dangerous, but for now their landlady was safely in her flat, resting. It had been a shock for them all, and he didn't want the nice old lady to suffer because of it. They needed someone to stay sane amidst the craziness of the last hour.

John looked out the window almost the whole way, his hands clenched into fists. Greg knew that if they hadn't been, they would have shaken.

"How could this happen?" he asked, more himself than the DI. It was easy enough to guess his thoughts. John was blaming himself.

"We don't know what it is yet" Greg tried to soothe him, but he shook his head.

"There had to be symptoms – there just had to be. And if he – no, I would have noticed" he mumbled.

Greg had also wondered if Sherlock was taking drugs again, but John couldn't have failed to notice that. He would have noticed any symptoms Sherlock displayed, in fact. He couldn't have missed any indication that he was sick.

Maybe there was a simple explanation. Maybe Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept enough, and he'd been confused because of that and then his body had shut down –

Again he remembered what he had thought when he had talked to him. This strange feeling that he wasn't talking to Sherlock at all, but to someone else – and since John had told him what Sherlock's last words before going to his room had been – no, it couldn't be. Whatever he had thought was too weird to contemplate. Sherlock had acted like this, had worried him because he was about to have a seizure, it was as simple as that –

Sherlock would hate him for theorizing without data, so he shoved the thought away and concentrating on getting to the hospital as quickly as possible without causing an accident.

Sherlock couldn't say that he woke up, because when he did, he was surrounded by darkness. But it was not the comforting darkness of his subconscious; it was another, dangerous gloom, and he wondered if he was dead, if there was an afterlife and it consisted only of shadows, then he forced himself to think clearly.

He had shot Moriarty, had succeeded in pointing the gun at his head and pulling the trigger. He had fainted afterwards, right as the consulting criminal collapsed, which strengthened his suspicion that they were linked somehow, that Moriarty had not only presented a memory, but a part of himself he was desperate to repress as well.

Where was he now? This was not his mind palace, and not his subconscious. But where could he be? The mind had mountains, and apparently they were countless. He had somehow ended up where he had never been.

Maybe he wasn't dead, but dying, having killed Moriarty creating an imbalance in his mind that caused his body functions to cease. If so, he was more than happy to accept it. He had defeated Moriarty; his friends were safe. London was safe. He could drift away, he could stop to exist. No more memories that haunted him. He was about to sit down and wait for the inevitable when he remembered.

_A shaking hand, a desperate plea for him not to be dead._

_An angry reminder that he was the worst tenant anyone could ever have._

_A badge, half ruined by the weather, that he had found at his grave after he had returned._

He could have died peacefully if he had been assured that his friends wouldn't suffer, but they would. He had seen them suffer before. He couldn't do it to them again, he couldn't force John to go through it again. Much as Sherlock had tried to ignore it, his death had almost killed him the first time; what if he was the one who found his body now?

He started to move. He couldn't see his own body, he could see nothing, but he felt himself move, and he hoped that it was in the right direction. He felt that it was, but perhaps he was so far gone that part of him wanted to finish the journey.

He soon found that it was difficult to move, as if he was struggling against a current pulling him in the other direction. He was confused, dizzy, and only one thought kept him going. John. He couldn't do it to John. He couldn't die on him again.

And he moved. He could be struggling his way back to life; it certainly felt like struggling. It was certainly better than waiting quietly for death.

How did his mind palace look now? The thought appeared suddenly and he held unto it, as a lifeline, as a thought that connected with consciousness, with life.

The damage that Moriarty had done had to be reparable. It had to be. He would work on it until everything was as it was supposed to be, until the corridors where light and airy once more, the memories safely stowed away and unchanged, connections where he had created them –

Once he got there. He had to get there first. And, as he walked, he was starting to see a light. He hoped it wasn't the light at the end of the tunnel, as people liked to say; he'd always seen the metaphor as contradictory – death was the dying of light, so why should there be any?

He concentrated on reaching it. It was all he could do. When he did, when he touched it, when movement suddenly became easier –

He woke up. He knew immediately that he was in a hospital.

"Sherlock!"

John and Greg cried out his name simultaneously, the doctor informing him that he'd had a seizure and been brought in two hours previously. He advised him to take things slowly and was astonished when Sherlock sat up and asked, "When can we go home?"

"You can't. There are tests – " Sherlock stood up. "Sherlock – "

He opened his mouth and closed it again. What was he supposed to tell him? He had an excuse for his behaviour. The seizure he had apparently suffered after he had shot Moriarty. His strange behaviour in the days preceding it might well be explained through some strange medical problem that had appeared as quickly as it was gone again.

He could tell John the truth. But would he believe him? Would anyone? When he had been in his mind palace, fighting Moriarty, he had firmly believed that his friends would recognize the truth and act because he had to, because it was his last hope if he didn't succeed. But in the real world, things were different. Moriarty was gone. Why should he drag his spectre into the light when it was all over? Being declared insane would mean that the consulting criminal had won after all.

The decision was easy.

He submitted to the tests, and after two days, having been found healthy, he was allowed to go home.

When he came to pick him up, John asked, "Do you remember what you told me before..." he trailed off, and Sherlock realized he had one more chance to tell the truth. He decided against it and simply replied, "I don't know what I said. I remember talking to you, but I was too confused to understand my own words".

John beamed all the way to Baker Street.

He stopped smiling as he paused ton his way to the kitchen to make tea and turned on the telly to catch the news.

All they saw was Moriarty, asking them one question.

_Did you miss me?_


End file.
